


At Eden's End

by Englund_Price



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, F/M, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Slave, Slave Sam, Slow Build, graphic death, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 58,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englund_Price/pseuds/Englund_Price
Summary: Dean Winchester is a seasoned demon hunter; been chasing them down ever since his little brother went missing four years ago.On a random hunt, Dean stumbles across an incubus involved in the sex trade and decides to infiltrate one of their auctions in hopes of rescuing as many as he can. The last person he expects to see being sold is Sammy.**Not your average sex slave fic, but it can't be accurately summarized here. Give it a chance?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More stories from my hard drive that I just can't wait to share anymore. I really think getting feedback will help me to finish them.
> 
> Hope you like it

It starts in a bar.

It seems that everything starts in a bar, or failing that, eventually leads there. From being twelve years old and dragging his father away from his whiskey glass, unable to lift him as much as help him stumble along, to dragging his own battered body into the nearest rundown shanty and drowning the memories of The Job in his favorite liquid devil.

That's really what it's about after all—The Job. Hunting things, saving people, his family business. Roadhouse or tavern, taproom or pub, they're all a good place to start a hunt; places where the lips are loose and the skilled can scrounge up all the local gossip they could ever hope to find. They're also a good place to end a hunt, when the faces of the monsters or the ones he couldn't save won't stop swimming behind his eyelids, when all he wants is a warm body for a scant hour followed by a night of numb silence. His life is the hunt, the hunt is everything. So for Dean Winchester at least, it's fair to say that everything begins and ends in a bar.

He's twenty-three, with a boyish face of a teenager but the haunted eyes of an old man. He's not looking for a hunt tonight, just came off a vengeful spirit case that got a little rough, and instead busies himself with leering at the bartender's tight little ass and sucking back burning mouthfuls of the cheapest whiskey they've got. The alcohol helps to dull the ache pulsing from his ears to his hips, down his shoulders and into his hands. It doesn't matter how many graves he digs, it never seems to get any easier, as though each coffin is buried a little deeper than the one before.

When the bartender turns around again, Dean finally fixes his gaze on her face. She's older than he thought, but still pretty in that plain mid-western way.

Dean quickly gulps down the rest of his drink and thumps his glass back down on the scuffed wooden bar. "Think you can get me another there, sugar?" Dean grins at her, flashing his eyes in a way he knows makes all the panties in sight moisten a little.

The bartender's smoky eyes narrow seductively and then she smiles at him. She's missing two of her bottom teeth, right in the front; Dean's enough of a pro that he doesn't let his own expression drop. "Sure thing sweetheart," She drawls with a smokers rasp—and _breath._

Dean's smooth grin becomes a tight smile as she tips another two fingers of whiskey into his glass before sashaying off to her other customers, pointedly swinging her hips. His mouth turns down at the corners as he watches her go. She really does have a nice ass.

Still, Dean thinks as he cants his body away from the bar and out towards the rest of the room—he hasn't let his standards fall quite that far yet. He scans the rest of the crowd, looking for an easy pull. It's late enough that the easiest barflies have already been picked up. There's a few of the hard to get girls in their business casual, girls-night-out, fancy blouses sipping at fruity cocktails. In one corner there's some of the druggies; scrawny girls giggling over their cheap beer, hungry eyes searching for the man who'll pay for their next fix. But the uppity girls take too much effort and want to call him the next day, and the junkies probably have less teeth between them than Dean has all together. While the latter might be interesting blow job wise, he's always preferred to be able to look at his one night stands without cringing. It's decidedly slim pickings, despite still having a generous crowd for this time of night.

"Slim pickings, isn't it?" A deep voice says from behind him and Dean swiftly spins on his stool to face it.

A man, white, mid thirties, medium build—brunette, nice hair, parted and combed like a business man, paid a lot for that haircut, manicured nails, clean clothes—classy shit, expensive watch, finely groomed facial hair—trimmed goatee, no gray, trimmed sideburns, hell, even his eyebrows. Dean sees all of this in less than two seconds, that easy smile curling up onto his lips out of reflex again.

"Read my mind," Dean replies in a low voice.

The man laughs, straight white teeth glinting in the light, "I could tell the minute I saw you that you're a class above the usual patrons."

Dean's not unused to being hit on by men. He's always had too fine a face, always had a strong, well-trained body and a certain swagger to his hips that attracts more than just the eyes of the fairer sex. Once upon his teenage years, he'd been a little less picky and even tried out the game on the other team, but he quickly found it didn't hold much appeal for him. That doesn't mean he can't use his appearance to his advantage, and this guy's wallet looks like it'd be worth the effort to lift.

Dean leans his right elbow on the bar, slouching a little to make his t-shirt show off the curve of his chest and stomach, bringing attention to the way his jeans hold around his hips. "That so?" he husks, aiming his eyes at Mr. Moneybags. "You don't look like the usual riffraff either, t'tell the truth."

The man grins and then Dean feels something funny. There's a thick, syrupy feeling slipping into his head, a prickling heat diffusing into his muscles. He can still think straight, thank god, but he feels decidedly more drunk than he should. The man's eyes flash in the light, could've sworn they were brown, but for a moment—

Dean's spidey-sense is immediately tingling, his alarm bells sounding a red alert. This guys doesn't belong here either, and not just because he's rich. He's something else, something more than human.

"The name's Ezra," The man says stepping closer, between Dean and the empty stool to his left. Ezra doesn't sit though, maintaining his slight height advantage, as he offers out his right hand to shake.

"Hammil," Dean replies, shaking his hand, feels tingles up his arm and warmth pooling in his crotch at the contact. "Bruce," He clarifies, voice trembling a little at the unexpected and very _intrusive_ sensation. He imagines that if he didn't know better, he might be just drunk enough to believe the sudden lust was spawned internally. But he does know better, and this man is doing something to him. It's faerie glamour or warlock's magic, siren song or incubus intent. The first two are rare, the last two are far more likely.

Considering he's a Winchester, and demons are his bread and butter, Dean's betting on incubus. He leans a little closer to the man and the zinging itch in his left hand confirms it.

"No," The man draws the word out lowly, as though he simply can't believe it. "A face like that with the name _Bruce?_ What _were_ your parents thinking."

"Ah, I was a goofy lookin' kid," Dean shrugs, turning to hide his eyes, playing up the shyness and vulnerability, pretending he's the kind of boy who doesn't get compliments as easy as breathing.

"Well whatever's in the water here, it did you right," Ezra aims his eyes right at Dean's and that heavy, drugged feeling intensifies. His eyes are brown, but they keep dizzily flashing gold specks.

Dean's still a hunter, so he doesn't let himself get distracted. He notes that Ezra thinks he's a local, and that means the guy is just a traveler himself. "Not from around here?" Dean says, or really _slurs_. He's starting to get a bad feeling, but he's not far enough gone that he can't handle himself. He can still take this motherfucker out.

Ezra chuckles again, "I suppose you've caught me. I'm just a tourist."

"A tourist coming to Elyria, Ohio?" Dean asks, barely remembering the town's name fast enough to be able to say the sentence naturally. "Well you're either really weird or really boring."

The man smiles wider, turning his head for a moment, and this time it actually seems genuine, like he's laughing at his own private joke. "Well not to Elyria, per se."

Dean digs, "No? Where to then?"

"Detroit, actually," Ezra replies in a careless quip, telling the truth because he thinks it won't matter. "On my way to a business deal. I either had the choice to fly or drive in from New York. And I didn't buy that damn car for nothing, you know."

"Car?" Dean asks, now actually curious. "No way," He drawls lowly as he realizes, "You own that—" _piece of_ _plastic_ _euro-_ _trash_ "Ferrari outside?"

"You noticed?" Ezra's trimmed eyebrows rise. "I tried to go for a less... conspicuous model."

"Nah, I got a thing for cars. Spotted it the minute I came in," Dean says, and it's true. He had noticed the 360 coupe as he was walking towards the entrance; it's definitely new, 2001 or 2002. It's painted black, no high gloss finish, normal plates—Ezra's right, he could've gone a lot flashier, and the specific flavor of douchebag that gets off on owning a new Ferrari usually does.

Ezra takes a step closer, leaning his forearm on the bar, hand lax but fingertips nearly brushing Dean's sleeve. "Did you like it?"

Dean licks his lips and turns his head away, bashful. "Well yeah but... man, I could never afford a car like that. Be scared to drive it honestly."

"You? No," Ezra corrects, and perhaps Dean isn't playing this guy as well as he thinks. "You don't look like the type to be scared of much."

"You sayin' you'll let me drive your car?" Dean asks, still trying maintain control of his body despite the pulses of warmth and pleasure he's getting from just being close to this guy. This is probably one of the least shitty interactions he's ever had with a demon, but he can't let himself get carried away enjoying it.

"Well," Ezra laughs, "Maybe not _drive_. But I'd be more than willing to give you a ride, Bruce." He leans in even closer for his last words, voice deepening and almost seeming to echo in Dean's ears. Fuck it feels good too, but that's just the bait on the end of this monster's black-eyed hook.

"Sure," Dean answers, pouring back the rest of his drink, coughing a little at the burn before shaking it off. He allows his face to flush from the combination of incubus lust and alcohol, looks up through his eyelashes at Ezra's mouth before forcing his eyes farther up, "Gettin' pretty sick of this scene anyhow."

Ezra's grin is beetle-slick and dark as sin. "Good," is all he says in reply.

When Dean pulls out his wallet, he's stopped by a hand over his and barely holds in a moan at the contact. “No,” Ezra says, voice low and smooth, leaning in close enough that Dean can feel the warmth of his breath. “Allow me. I insist.”

The man pulls out a few twenties, more than enough to cover Dean's drinks and a generous tip. Dean puts his wallet back into his pocket and stands from his stool. He's reassured to find that his legs are steady even if his head is swimming. The incubus must only be effecting his mind rather than his body.

Ezra guides Dean out the back exit, where the thirty-something smokers are chatting lowly and the stoners stand a little further off, even quieter as they toke. The golden light and warmth of the bar melts into the somber chill of an early autumn night, the quiet only disturbed by muffled music leaking from the door behind them. It's surprisingly clear, just a few wisps of clouds hanging high in the sky, allowing the stars to peek through the gaps and giving the moon a shimmering, misty halo. Dean lets himself be led by a hand as hot as the baking summer sun against the small of his back. He can feel the heat sink into him through his leather jacket.

They walk around the side of the building, leaving even the minimal noise of the smokers and music behind. The farther they get, the more Dean starts to legitimately worry about his plan here. He figured he'd let the guy take him back to wherever he's staying, let the bastard get comfortable thinking of Dean as a civilian, then go for the holy water in the breast pocket of his leather jacket and blessed iron knife in his boot. Incubi aren't like other demons; they don't have to possess anyone—actually _can't_ possess anyone—because their power is based in their physical form. They can make themselves look like anything, but they have to suck human souls dry to keep up the trick. If you can tear into their physical form with iron, or pour enough salt and holy water down their gullets, their power fails and their bodies will start to dissolve into black smoke like any other demon. Then they _can_ possess a person, but they can also be caught in a devil's trap and exorcised.

Dean's plan should work, he knows he can gank this evil bastard, but with every step he takes through the darkened parking lot, he's getting higher and higher. It's almost at smiley-face tabs at a west coast rave levels and Dean can hear his own heavy breathing, starts to get tunnel vision.

"You know," He says, voice belying his desperation, "How's about we keep the ride short. You stayin' someplace around here, tourist?"

Ezra's hand slides up his spine, skin against leather, until he reaches the nape of Dean's neck. The skin contact sends literal shivers through every muscle Dean has. "More interested in the destination than the journey, hm?" he leans in to say against Dean's ear. "I can appreciate that. I've got a room at the Hampton here. You'd like to join me there for the evening?"

"Yes," Dean says, then just to keep down any suspicion he lets himself soften beneath the man's touch, bites his bottom lip and slicks it with his tongue, "Please."

"Good," Ezra says again, and the word is joined by a pulse of something so much like pleasure Dean's not entirely sure he didn't just come close to an orgasm despite only being half-mast below the belt.

Dean had walked to the bar, leaving the Impala safe at his cheap motel, so he doesn't pause before slipping into the passenger seat. The seat molds around his body, almost cradling him, and it feels as invasive as Ezra's touch. Dean doesn't think a car should fondle him like this; that's what women are for. He's entirely assured that his Baby trumps this piece of shit in every way, vinyl benchseat and all.

It's fortunate that Elyria is small enough to make the trip necessarily short because Ezra is getting handsy as hell on the way, fingers digging into Dean's thigh, rubbing along his inseam higher and higher. If they talk, Dean doesn't really remember what about. He's almost dizzily drunk on the incubi's power, vision intermittently going dark as his eyes slip involuntarily closed. About then is when Dean realizes he should've excused himself to call Bobby or Dad and let them know what he was doing.

There's no time for it when they reach the hotel, but luckily as soon as Ezra's hands are off him Dean's faculties start to flood back. He gulps in a few deep breaths in the time it takes for the other man to exit the car and walk around to the passenger side, internally cementing his plan. Dean opens his own door before Ezra can get it, and takes a step back to avoid any further contact until they get to the room.

"Lead the way," Dean says, not attempting to hide his breathlessness as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

Fuck this is actually really dangerous. Dad would throw a full on shit-fit if he ever found out.

"Keep close, won't you?" the incubus tries, offering his arm out for Dean to slip under, to let it wrap around his shoulders.

Yeah, fuck that.

Dean smiles enigmatically and shakes his head, walking past the proffered contact. "I prefer to keep the touchy-feely stuff on the bed, f'you don't mind."

Ezra raises one perfect brow and lets his arm drop, "Can't argue that."

His room is on the first floor, towards the back of the hotel. There are almost no other cars parked this far back and he suspects the demon bribed the front desk to get a little more privacy. It's not like Dean hasn't done the same thing on occasion. Ezra uses his key on the door and then invites Dean in with a sweeping gesture. Dean walks straight to the bed, standing with his back to the demon and his knees against the side of the mattress, hand slipping into the breast pocket of his jacket for his flask.

He waits for the sound of the closing door to quickly spin the top off, masking the sound. He leaves his back to the monster, tense under the pressure of eyes on the back of his head. He doesn't like having the monster out of his sights, but Dean knows he needs the incubus off his guard.

Just as he expected, Ezra slides up behind him, mouthing wet and bristly at his nape, wrapping an arm around his waist while his other hand squeezes Dean's ass. And that's just about enough of letting this motherfucker paw at him.

Element of surprise on his side, Dean splashes the water over his shoulder. The demon shouts, voice distorted and too deep, recoiling as the holy water sizzles on his skin. Because he's not in a human body, his demonic power exposed directly, his skin visibly blisters black.

Dean turns and splashes more before Ezra has a chance to recover and the demon screams, falling to his knees. He uses the monster's distraction to swiftly snatch the iron knife from his boot, and holds the blade at the thing's throat.

When Ezra manages to look up, a vicious sneer mangles his attractive illusion, revealing his true nature. _"Hunter,"_ the demon growls deeply.

"Hell bitch," Dean smirks, pressing the blade deeper into the demon's skin, watching it blacken and sizzle at the touch of iron. Ezra howls again, trying to pull away but Dean quickly grabs hold of his hair with his left hand.

The demon sneers at him, baring his teeth. "You think you can kill me boy?" Ezra asks, voice hollow and hellish, echoing within its chest. "You plunge that knife in me and I'll be free of this form. But then I'll just _possess_ you. Make you rip out your own guts one inch at a time, make you feel every second of it."

Dean's mouth turns down at the corners again and he tips his head to the side as though slightly impressed. "Yeah, you're right. That is what'd happen. If I didn't have you in a devil's trap."

Ezra's sneer thickens and it's clear he's about to protest but then he attempts to move and finds himself frozen in place. "How—" the demon starts but Dean releases his hair, keeping his left hand above the monster's head.

Ezra tips his head back and looks, seeing the white scarred devil's trap carved into Dean's palm.

The demon's sneer has fallen a little, defeat and fear warring for prominence in its expression as Ezra looks at him again. "Winchester," it spits.

One side of Dean's mouth twitches into the world's briefest smile before he replies, "In the flesh. And you, like I said, are Hell's bitch." There's no use stalling any further so Dean plunges the knife down into the crook of the demon's neck, vertical so that it should be piercing the thing's heart.

Ezra starts screaming and doesn't stop, eyes and nose and mouth all leaking black smoke. Dean pulls up his left sleeve, revealing the tattoos across his skin, looping words spelled out on the pale inside of his forearm. He starts reading.

 _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabolica._ _Ergo,_ _d_ _raco_ _m_ _aledicte_ _et_ _omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis,_ _h_ _umiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine_ _q_ _uem inferi tremunt ab insidiis diaboli._ _L_ _ibera nos, Domine,_ _u_ _t_ _e_ _cclesiam tuam_ _servire_ _tibi facias libertate secura, te rogamus, audi nos."_

It takes a few minutes to get all the way through, by which point Ezra is little more than a ball of smoke, crumpled clothes, and the stink of sulfur. Dean has to repeat it twice more before the demon loses its grip on this world and catapults back to hell, burning out in a bright fireball, scorching Dean's palm so that he grits his teeth until it's over.

He pulls his hand into his chest as soon as the demon is gone, waiting for the pain to dissipate before carefully examining his tender, bright red skin. First degree, nothing to worry about.

Dean bends to pick up his iron knife from the pile of Ezra's nice clothes, now covered in a thin layer of yellow dust. He slips it back into his ankle holster and then looks around the room again. It appears that Ezra really wasn't lying about the business trip thing. There's a suitcase with more classy shit folded up inside, a briefcase and a laptop on the table. Dean wonders what the hell kind of business an incubus could be involved in. Most demons don't want anything, just chaos and destruction for its own sake. But there are some that have plans, some that are powerful and ancient, that choose to walk among humans rather than carelessly destroy everything in their path.

For the past four years, Dean and his father have almost exclusively hunted demons, taking on monsters and spirits only in their down time. Dean won't say he's an expert, but he knows a hell of a lot, and this just doesn't add up. Incubi are certainly a step above the average hellspawn, but they're not anywhere near the top of the food chain. All they want is to suck humans dry, to fuck and kill their way across the world, sending what little remains of their victims' souls down to hell. As far as Dean's aware, they don't work on a scale any larger than that.

He approaches the small table in the corner, casting glances at the paperwork inside the open briefcase, unable to understand any of it. The laptop is open too, so Dean grabs it by the top of the screen and spins it towards himself, hitting the power button to wake it up.

The screen lights just as he hears shuffling from the bathroom behind him.

Dean's got his knife back in his hands in less than three seconds, abandoning his curiosity and slowly stalking towards the en suite. He twists the hilt in his palm, taking a reverse grip, edge out, boots silent on the carpet. As he approaches the closed door, he sees from the glow around the frame that the light is on, bright white—fluorescent. He stands at the door, tilting his ear towards it and listening. It's quiet.

It takes a few seconds for Dean's ears to pick up on the lowest audible sounds, something rhythmic, _breathing—_

Dean turns the knob then and opens the door, his stance dropping when he sees the naked girl in the bathtub.

"Oh god," Dean mumbles reflexively, rushing forward to kneel at her side. Dishwater blonde, young—can't be out of her teens, approx 5'4 and 120 pounds, bite marks all over her body, neck to ankles, bloody, scabbed, some at least a few weeks old, others bright and new, bruises and blood on her inner thighs, nipples sucked up to deep purple, honey-brown eyes... vacant.

Dean sets his knife on the ground beside his knee and reaches forward, to find the pulse at her throat, but her skin there is so bitten up, raw and swollen, that he doesn't dare press against it. He goes for her wrist instead. At the touch, she flinches, blinks, writhes a little and starts crying softly.

"Shhh, I'm not gonna hurt you," Dean says, and his voice shakes. His fingers are too cold to find her pulse so he pulls away and rubs his hands quickly up and down over his denim clad thighs, friction warming. He tries again, hands steady from the adrenaline as he gingerly grabs her left wrist, fingers against the blue veins all too visible through her pale skin in the glaring white light.

There's a _thump thump_ beneath his fingertips that gives him a little hope, but after a few seconds of counting, the hope disintegrates like cotton candy in the rain . It's too slow, way too slow, not even at 40 bpm and dropping , uneven, bouncing erratically. Fuck. _Fuck._

She's got an hour, at best.

"Hey," Dean speaks softly, reaching out to gently brush the stray tangles of her brassy hair back from her forehead, soft as cornsilk. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. Can you talk, can you tell me your name?"

Her eyes roll as she tries to look over at him, pupils blown wide despite the harsh light, unfocused.

"H... Help..." She breathes out, softer than a child's sigh, and her voice just confirms she's as young as she looks, if not younger. Dean's jaw aches.

"Yeah, it's okay. Tell me your name sweetheart. Please, just whisper it for me, okay?" Dean tries, his calloused thumb rubbing ever so gently against the apple of her cheek.

Her breath hitches wetly and she gasps through it, each one sounds like a struggle, like she's fighting for every second. "Mi... Mi...an..."

"Mia?" Dean asks.

She shakes her head once, licks her pale white lips and tries again. "Mir...a- _an_..."

"Miranda?" Dean asks and she lets out a relieved sigh, her whole chest deflating and Dean can see her ribs. She nods once, eyes closing and more hot, salty tears leaving tracks down her cheeks.

"Okay, Miranda. Shh, it's gonna be just fine. Just relax. I'm—I'm gonna pick you up now, okay? I'm gonna get you to a hospital."

She nods eagerly at that and Dean slowly moves his hand down from her cheek around the back of her shoulders, bony blades like wings digging into his arm. He positions himself better to get an arm under the backs of her knees and carefully starts to lift, averts his eyes from the little pool of blood she was sitting in.

She lets out a shocked yelp of pain and chokes on her own sobs, curling into Dean's chest as he brings her up out of the tub. She's freezing cold, skin arctic and covered in goosebumps. He revises his first assessment—definitely lighter than 120 pounds.

He makes it out of the bathroom and as far as the bed before she starts spasming, heart attack probably.

"Whoa, whoa," Dean says, trying to set her down carefully, unable to hold onto her like this but not wanting to drop her. "Okay Miranda. It's okay, just breathe. Just breathe."

She's crying through it, quiet, choking sounds squeezed out of her throat with every lurching twitch, limbs kicking like a fish out of water. It stops after a couple minutes, her body finally going limp with exhaustion, and she's still crying. "Mo-om... mommy..."

A harsh coughing sob makes it's way out of Dean's throat as he gentles her down onto the bed, wrapping her in the thick, snow white covers to warm her up. "It's gonna be okay. Hold on for me, Miranda. Just hold on."

When he lifts her again, blankets and all, he looks down at her face and sees her irises eaten up by the black of her pupils, staring blankly. He feels when her bladder releases, sees she's not breathing, bites his lip hard as he sets her back down. Fingers to her wrist again, he waits ten seconds, the stench of urine and sorrow settling in him somewhere past his ribs, the kind of thing you never forget as long as you live. He waits ten seconds, but the little _thump thump_ never comes back.

He starts CPR.

Breath after breath into pale lips, eyes staring blindly straight back into his each time. Fingers intertwined over a small chest, pump, one, two, three, all the way to thirty. Lips to lips, blow, staring, c'mon Miranda, _breathe_ , thirty more.

When Dean finally stands away from her body he swings his arm out and sends a lamp careening off, plug ripped from the socket, shattering against a wall.

He should've been faster. He should've known that demon would've already had someone, should've rushed right to her. He needed to know her name to take her to the hospital, to look through missing persons, to find her family, but he should've rushed her out to the car anyway. He shouldn't have slowed down because she whined and sobbed with each step. He should've—

Rough hands scraping up through his stubble, up over his face, cheeks wetter than he expected. His left hand is just a tad rougher from the scar cut into his palm, and he feels the burned skin sting. It centers him, just a little.

The demon had her for weeks. She probably wouldn't have made it if he'd gotten her to the best hospital in the lower 48 in under five minutes. It wasn't just her body, but her _soul_ that had been depleted. There was nothing he could do.

But that means he shouldn't have picked her up. Should've just made her comfortable for her last minutes—

Stop.

Dean sucks in a deep, fortifying breath through his nose, ignores the tang of urine still hanging in the air. When he finds the courage to turn back and face the girl, she looks so tiny wrapped up in the big comforter, looks so innocent and so, so young. She could be anywhere from fourteen to eighteen, but definitely not older than that—a high school girl.

Dean clenches his jaw shut and walks over, covering her eyes with his palm as he drags the top sheet off the bed to lay over her. She's too freshly dead so her eyes won't stay closed, but he can't look at them anymore. He can't.

The stark white shroud makes it only a little less horrific.

"I'm sorry," He whispers to her.

He'll find her family. He'll search every missing persons case until he finds them, so they can have their daughter back. Little Miranda.

Dean turns away decisively and his eyes scan the room again. The laptop sits unassumingly on the table, still open. He walks to it with purposeful strides, pulls out the chair and wakes it up again. There's a password.

Dean's not great with computers, but he knows a few tricks. He starts with guessing, hoping it'll be something easy so he won't have to break out his more complicated and time-consuming methods. He shuffles through the papers in the open briefcase, finding that many are addressed in letterhead to Mr. Lucianus. He tries that in the password bar but it comes up incorrect. Dean looks around the table a little more for any kind of post-it or note or clue. His eyes stop at the combo lock on the briefcase itself, already open, the combination left at 5454. He tries _Lucianus5454_ and somehow, it works.

The blue screen says _Logging In_ , and he lets out a sigh, head dropping with relief. Once on, Dean sees there were a lot of things left open. There's a gallery with pictures of faces, blank white backgrounds, collarbones and up, no visible clothing, no jewelry, loose hair, minimal makeup, no smiles, all girls. Dean only clicks through a handful of them before he minimizes the gallery and moves on. There's a couple internet browsers open. One has a MapQuest page up, destination Detroit, and a shitty part of town if Dean remembers the city correctly, the warehouse district. The other browser is open to an email account.

Dean starts reading.

The further he gets, the further he slumps in his chair, elbow on the table and hand over his mouth.

 

 _ **RE:RE: Merchandising Meeting** – _ _09_ _/_ _30_ _/2002_

_This one won't last much longer. I might stop to pick up a snack on my way there. I'll need at least five more back in New York, should last me a few months. My penthouse can easily accommodate them all. Transport shouldn't be an issue if it's spaced out evenly and your delivery men are professionals. See if we can get them younger this time, the young ones are always sweetest. I'll see you at the auction._

_-Luc_

 

 _ **RE: Merchandising Meeting** – _ _09_ _/_ _2_ _9_ _/2002_

_You've had your sample for quite a few weeks now. How're you finding it? Have you gained an appreciation for re-used merchandise? Remember there's plenty more like that, and better, if you continue to work with us. I hope you're prepared for the meeting on the 1 _st_ ; I've already got your bank account wired directly to the seller so all you need to bring is your ticket in. You can't get in without it, Luc, no matter how you like to flaunt the rules._

_This is a very exclusive event with merchandise of the highest quality. Not even the richest man could afford to be sloppy here. I expect you'll be wanting three or more again this time, so please come prepared with transport plans. We'll discuss further business in person._

_-_ _Dimitri_

 

_**Merchandise Meeting** – 09/24/2002_

_I've received your package in the mail. The instructions are quite clear and the ticket assures me this meeting will have more than adequate security. Though it is rather large and gaudy. I've already cleared my schedule for the first of October and look forward to seeing you again._

_-_ _Luc_

 

"What the fuck... "

 

**_RE:RE:RE Merchandise Sample:_ ~~ _pending_~~ ~~_sent_~~ ** _**RECEIVED** – 08/22/2002_

_Yes, I did receive the sample, just as lovely as you promised. This certainly makes me far more amenable to your proposal, though I think we should wait to finalize details until we can speak in person. Technology is hardly secure enough to be relied on in this day and age._

_In regards to the sample, however, I prefer my packages to be fresh and unopened. This one, while sweet is very clearly used. I understand that in the case of a sample, one cannot expect the most rare and desirable merchandise. But make no mistake, that is what I seek if we are to go to auction as you say. Still, I issue my thanks for the gift and hope our dealings continue long into the future._

_-Luc_

 

**_RE:RE: Merchandise Sampl_ _e:_ ~~ _pending_~~ _sent_** _**–** 08/20/2002_

_I've yet to hear from you regarding the sample I've sent to you. It should've arrived yesterday, if not, contact me immediately. I chose one specifically tailored to your preference as we discussed. Blond, fifteen, 34B, kind and obedient. If there's anything further, you know how to reach me._

_-Dimitri_

 

**_RE: Merchandise Sample:_ ~~ _pending_~~ _sent_** _– 08/1_ _7_ _/2002_

_It's been sent. Expect to receive it in 48 hours._

_-Dimitri_

 

**_Merchandise Sample:Pending_ **

_In regards to what I'd like to see in my sample, here is a short list of attributes. Youth, caucasian, blond, supple but thin, perhaps a B cup. Obedience and loyalty are important as well. Other than that, feel free to chose at your own discretion which item would please me best. I'll remind however, that I'd ultimately like to have a bit of variety when I've assembled a full stock._

_-Luc_

 

Dean sits at the table for twenty minutes at least, staring at the screen in utter incomprehension. No, that's not right. He comprehends what they're talking about just fine, what he's feeling is shock and disgust and a complete detachment from any kind of understanding. How could anyone talk about people this way? Girls, _children_. It boggles and unsettles him far more than anything else he's seen in his years, and he's seen a lot.

Because demons, yeah, demons are evil. It's what they do, it's all they are. But this… This is bigger than just demons. If this is as big as he thinks it is, there are humans involved in the _'business'_ too and that makes him literally nauseous, makes his head spin with rage. He's heard about crazy shit like this, saw half of a made-for-TV movie in a shitty motel somewhere in Colorado last year about one woman's harrowing experience with human trafficking. But he never… he didn't ever really _think_ about it. Not for real. Not happening in his own fuckin' backyard while he's off doing salt-n-burns or hunting a stray chupacabra.

His dad has rules about not getting involved in human crimes. He says it's too messy and not really their place, and Dean agrees. But if demons are gettin' in on this shit, then it is officially Winchester jurisdiction.

Dean gets up from the table and starts to search the room. There's a ticket somewhere, _'big and gaudy,'_ and it'll let him get inside this event. He'll start there.

It takes only a few minutes to find the ticket at the bottom of Ezra's, or _Luc's_ , suitcase. It is pretty big, about the size of a half sheet of paper, thick and creamy card stock with illegible symbols and squiggles on it. Dean assumes it's gotta be some kind of barcode, but he's never seen one like this. He takes it and sits it out on the table beside the laptop, stares at the screen and thinks.

He takes everything out of the brief case, briefly scanning the paperwork but it all looks benign; building permits and something something, legal jargon. Brow creased heavily, Dean copies down the MapQuest address and directions on the back of a stray sheet of paper then places it into the empty briefcase. He opens the other browser again and clicks to compose a new email.

 

 _ **Urgent:Change of Plans** – _ _10_ _/_ _01_ _/2002_

 _I_ _did find_ _a new toy along the way and while I'll still be at the auction, I'm thinking of_ _selling this one_ _. It's very young and attractive but too small for my uses. I do think it'll get quite a lot in the current market._ _We should meet before the auction, see if you can get it added to the register._ _I'm more than happy to split the profits with you if that helps speed the process._

 _I'll_ _find a motel_ _a few blocks from our meeting_ _and_ _send my room number as soon as I've checked in._ _Meet me there at noon._

_-Luc_

 

Dean leans away from the computer, reading over his email a few times and some of Ezra's other emails to be sure it sounds like him. When he's satisfied, he hits send. He closes the laptop then, pulling its charger from the wall and folding it up neat, places it into the briefcase. He goes back to the bathroom, carefully not looking at the bathtub as he grabs up his knife and straps it back to his ankle. He goes through the suitcase again. There's a lot of cash, which he pockets, a passport too.

He shakes out Ezra's sulfur coated clothes, taking his wallet, his car keys, his watch, his cell phone.

He stands in the room a few seconds longer, thinking over anything he might be forgetting. He's got a half-formed plan already in his head and time's ticking down. It's already after midnight so the auction starts at 4 PM _today_. He's only got about 12 hours to get everything in order.

Dean places the ticket, the passport, the wallet, the watch, and the cell phone inside the briefcase before snapping it shut. Briefcase in one hand, Ferrari keys in the other, he heads for the door. He pauses at the threshold, turning to look over his shoulder at the shrouded corpse lying on the king size bed. God, she deserves so much better than to be found in some shitty hotel in Ohio.

There's nothing Dean can do about it right now. He was too late for her from the start, but he might just be able to save others, to take out the demons involved in this fucking shit and leave some tips for the cops on the human criminals too. He almost says he's sorry again, but this time he's sober and aware enough to know it doesn't matter whether he is or not.

Face grim, briefcase in hand, Dean flicks off the light and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I know there's no Sam yet, so the next chapter will be up tomorrow
> 
> Leave a kudo if you liked it.  
> Leave your a comment if you loved it?  
> Come back tomorrow to see where this goes?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader response to this has been amazing and I'm really grateful! I've worked really hard on every small detail of this story and it's awesome to see it appreciated.
> 
> This chapter is extra long, but still very Action/Adventure. Don't worry, we'll get the boys together and then all the sweet, sweet drama will unfold.
> 
> Special thanks to [Lizaloves](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizaloves/pseuds/Lizaloves) for adding to the story, and helping to keep the descriptions realistic. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean checks Ezra's fancy ass watch, strapped to his right wrist, for the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. It's 11:54 AM and he's sitting in a shitty room at the Stay Inn and Suites. Already staked out the warehouse where the auction is supposed to go down when he first got to Detroit early this morning. There was some shady shit going on—shipment containers moving around on cranes and big rigs at 4 AM on a Tuesday? The only visible workers dressed all in black, moving with military procedure, and clearly carrying weapons? Yeah, that's shady shit. He couldn't get close enough to do anything, couldn't even really see anything, but he's sure now that this auction is real and a lot bigger than just Dimitri and Luc.

He drove the Impala to the motel, but parked her about a block away. He'd dumped Ezra's stupid fucking Ferrari deep into the trees on the side of a country road in Elyria, but he took the guy's plates and put them on his own car for now. He's changed his clothes, the lingering scents of alcohol, sweat, and death too much for him to handle any further. He's wearing his nicest jeans, dark wash, no rips and a dark green button down over a gray t-shirt, amulet hanging down at his chest. Dean's leather jacket lies beside the briefcase next to him on the sagging mattress, ticket and laptop inside. He already sent off his room number to Dimitri, going on—he checks his watch again, seven hours ago now.

Now he has to wait, his least favorite part of any heist.

11:57 and still no sign of the bastard. Dean's been trying not to worry but maybe his email wasn't good enough. Maybe he tipped off Dimitri somehow. Maybe the guy knows Ezra's dead. If that's the case, Dean has no fucking clue what he'll do next.

Before he can get worked up about it any further, there's a knock at the door. Only one person it could be.

Dean stands, iron knife in his left hand, still aching from the last exorcism but ready to snag another demon. A quick peek through the peep hole, just to be sure it's not a maid. It isn't. Male, white, early thirties, black hair, neatly combed, casual dress, but too clean, too nice—rich. That's as much as he can see. Dean swallows once before twisting the handle and pulling, standing with his back against the door so Dimitri can't see him quite yet.

"Come in," He says in his best imitation of Ezra, waving him in with his right hand, sleeve rolled up to expose the fancy watch.

"So what's this all ab—"

As soon as the other man's feet have passed the threshold, Dean switches his knife into his right hand, slams the door and shoves him up against it. Left hand gripping his hair, iron blade pressed to his throat.

There's no sizzle.

Dimitri has lost his breath, but his face remains stoic, blue eyes hard as gemstones. He glances down at the knife and then back up at Dean. "You think you're going to kill me?"

Dean huffs, amused smirk pulling on his lips for half a second. "I don't think."

"Clearly," Dimitri drawls, unimpressed. Dean blinks once, realizing that his comeback had been kinda dumb. He refocuses.

"You're gonna tell me everything about the auction," Dean orders. "I wanna know who Luc was supposed to meet there, I want a list of everybody you know is gonna be there, and I want a list of their suppliers. You've got two minutes to start talkin' or you're dead on the floor."

Dimitri stares him down, then shrugs, "Kill me."

Bluffing, he has to be.

"I don't think you get what I'm sayin'," Dean growls out, leaning in closer, letting the blade bite into the other man's throat, drops of red beading along the edge.

"No, I don't think you get what kind of situation you're in," Dimitri says, and Dean notices his accent. Russian he'd guess, but Dean's not an expert. "You're not a cop. Let me guess. Giovanni sent you? Think you can threaten me and I'll just roll over, give you all my clients, no?"

Dean doesn't answer, instead watching the other man's face carefully, watching every little flicker in his eyes and twitch of his muscles. Lets him talk.

Dimitri leans in, sneer on his thin lips, "You don't have a corner on the market anymore. You're _weak._ " He seems smug, as though he's hit a nerve. "I don't work alone, and unless you drop that knife right now, you're entire family is dead."

Dean raises an eyebrow, "That so?"

Dimitri grins, "Think I'm bluffing? Think we can't find you? We can find _anyone_."

"Uh huh," Dean nods sarcastically. "Two minutes is nearly up."

Dimitri actually huffs a laugh and turns his head away, takes his eyes off his enemy like a careless rookie or a man who's sure he's got the upper hand. Dean knows Dimitri isn't the latter, even if he thinks he is.

"You've got no clue what you're getting yourself into, boy," The man says and that's 114 seconds, 115, 116.

Dean actually grins, "No, you have no clue." He brings his knee up hard, straight into Dimitri's ballsack, hard enough to have him pissin' blood for weeks. The man keens and starts to crumple, but Dean grabs him by the collar of his coat and spins him, pulling Dimitri's gun from where it's tucked into the back of his pants, long black silencer on the barrel. He lets the Russian fall then, kicks him in the ribs to roll him onto his back, wants those hard blue eyes to watch as Dean expels the magazine and throws it across the room, then tosses the gun into the opposite corner.

"See, _Dimitri_ ," Dean starts, crouching down and letting the tip of his knife hover just over the dip between the man's collar bones, "Giovanni didn't send me. Hell, I'm willin' to bet you've never met anyone like me in your entire sorry life—probably no one in your circle of scumbags either. I'm not here for your money, or your clients," Dean clarifies slowly, dragging the knife tip up to the man's chin, watching as his chest heaves. "I told you what I'm here for, and you're gonna give it to me."

Dimitri laughs then, head falling back so he's just looking at the ceiling, "So it's your daughter then, is it?" He keeps chuckling, finally focuses back on Dean, a smirk on his lips, "Or maybe a little sis."

Dean eyebrows flick up once in annoyance before he drags his knife purposefully down Dimitri's chest, cutting deep into his pectoral, making him grunt and curse.

"Not quite," Dean says, voice utterly insouciant over the sounds of a man in pain. Cold inside, running on raw skill, mechanical, no thought, no emotion. "Now since you're clearly a fuckin' idiot, I'ma spell this out as simple as I can. You can't barter your way outta this one, Dimitri. There is nothing, _nothing_ , I want from you or anyone you know except for those questions I asked. Who was Luc meeting at the auction, a list of everyone you know is going, and a list of every supplier you know, and that's it."

"Fuck you," Dimitri spits savagely, speckles of saliva bursting from his mouth and landing on his own chin. "You want to know, I' tell you for a price. But you can't kill me, or you'll never have your answers."

Dean laughs this time, thinks of little Miranda and knows for certain that some monsters are human. Dean Winchester kills monsters for a living.

"Listen here, Rooskie," Dean grunts, voice ominously deep as he shifts forward, lifting his knife again and this time angling the tip towards one of those blue eyes. Dimitri goes still, like a scared deer. "I don't even really need you to tell me. I just want you to. It'd make my day a helluva lot easier. I mean, I do have just under four hours before the auction to _make_ you talk," He threatens, a wicked little smile pulling up his lips when he sees the first trace of fear reading on Dimitri's face. "But if you're tellin' me that'd be a waste of my time? Then I guess we'll just end this now, won't we?"

There's silence as they stare at each other, as Dimitri realizes Dean is dead serious.

"W-Wait," The other man says, putting his hands up. "Okay, you want to know who Luc was meeting?"

"I'm listening," Dean nods, scraping his knife along Dimitri's thick, black eyebrow. It cuts the hair clean off, edge honed to surgical sharpness. He flicks the knife and lets the hair fall on Dimitri's cheek, watches him flinch as it lands.

"It was just me," Dimitri says, voice shaking, "He was only supposed to meet me, very discrete. We were to discuss adding another node in New York, and signing him up for our regular meetings. He wanted in on the business and my boss wanted me to vet him."

"Good," Dean nods again, encouraging, "That's good. Now I'm gonna sit you down with a pen and piece of paper, and you're gonna write down every name of the people showin' up at the auction today."

"I don't know everyone," Dimitri protests, “I don't even know half.” His accent gets thicker with his distress.

“Write down everyone you do know. And to make up for the rest, write down your boss's name, and anybody else you know involved in this shit,” Dean demands, standing from his crouch.

“I can't,” Dimitri breathes thickly, “He'll kill me.”

“Think you should be a little more worried about what I'll do to you,” Dean tips his head to the side. “Like I said, your friends don't know me. You won't get caught. And I'm not goin' after all of 'em, I just want their names.”

Dimitri's mouth tightens, twisting as he considers, but then Dean catches a flash of movement, the Russian's left hand in his pocket and quickly kicks his arm out and stomps on his hand with full force, once, twice, thrice—steel toed boots and all. The man screams but not so loud that Dean can't hear the breaking of bones along with the crunching of plastic. When he lifts his foot, Dimitri's little Nokia is shattered and his left hand isn't much better.

Dean's standing over him now, one foot on either side of his torso as the man trembles and brings his hand to his chest, cradling it close.

“Hope you aren't left handed,” Dean comments casually, “'Cause that'll make your next task a helluva lot harder, huh?”

“W-Who a-are you?” Dimitri demands and Dean just stares down at him.

“Your worst fuckin' nightmare,” He answers gravely, eyes as steady and cold as when he aims them down the sights of his Colt. “Now get up, and write me those names.”

Dimitri stumbles as he crawls, struggling to get to his feet. Dean sets out the motel writing pad and a pen on the cheap little card table in the corner. He's even kind enough to kick out the chair so Dimitri can slump into it, face sweating profusely now as he looks blankly at the pad of paper.

“Start,” Dean commands.

Dimitri does. He fills up two sheets in neat letters, about thirty people, by Dean's quick approximation.

“And then the suppliers. As many as you can remember,” Dean orders, standing over the man's shoulder, knife still in hand. He sees Dimitri pause, unsure, so to give him a little encouragement Dean bends down and talks into his ear.

“You lie to me? I find out you held out on me, and we'll have this chat again. Only it'll be a lot shorter, you catch my drift?”

Dimitri swallows thickly and then nods once, starting in on writing more names. It's not all people names this time, Dean notices. Some of them are business names, LLCs and Orgs and Incs. It takes another few minutes before Dimitri drops his pen.

“That's it,” He says. “That's everything.”

Dean picks up the pad of paper, the first five sheets now filled with written names, two columns per page, neat and tidy.

“Thanks Dimitri,” Dean says, his smile lifting his voice so that it sounds almost friendly. “You did me a real solid.”

“Then we're square,” the Russian says standing from his chair, clearly ready to book it even without his gun or phone.

Dean tosses the pad of paper onto the bed beside the briefcase, and Dimitri tries to walk past him. A hand on his chest and a shove backwards ends that quickly. Dean shoves hard enough that the other man falls back into the chair, but not into the seat, causing him to tumble over the furniture and down to the ground.

Dimitri lands on his back, legs propped awkward up on the chair. “What— I did what you asked—” he starts to object, furious and confused as he leans up on his elbows.

“Yeah, you did,” Dean admits, scratching at the back of his head with his free hand, “But you see, that don't make us square.”

“Fuck you! We had a deal!” Dimitri snarls, spitting all over himself again. Dean grimaces. It must suck to have to wipe your mouth every time you get angry.

“Actually, I don't think I ever said I'd let you go,” Dean explains. “And I'd remember if I did.”

“The fuck do you want from m—” Dimitri starts to ask but is cut off when Dean kicks the overturned chair out of the way, so there's nothing between them.

“What I want?” Dean asks, crouching down again, making sure this motherfucker can see his eyes. “I want Miranda alive again.”

Dimitri pales.

“You see, I was just passin' through Ohio when I came across your boy, Luc. Bad motherfucker. Shouldn'a been dealin' with him, Dimitri,” Dean says. He creeps closer, knife out and settled at the man's throat. “And then I had to hold a fifteen year old little girl as she pissed herself and cried for her mama and died in my arms.”

Dimitri closes his eyes, body going limp with terror, mumbling something in Russian, a prayer it sounds like. Bobby would know.

“You look at me, you piece of shit,” Dean grinds out, staring into Dimitri's cold blue eyes, straight down into his black soul. “You're dyin' today, for what you did to that little girl,” his voice is fury and conviction and dry gravel, “And when Hell swallows you down, you tell 'em Dean Winchester sent you.”

Dimitri opens his mouth to say something else, a plea, a curse, a last word, it doesn't matter. All that comes out is a gurgle, Dean's iron knife striking fast and splitting open the man's throat, ruby red bursting forth, bright and sticky wet. Dean stands quickly to avoid the blood but it only spurts a little, cut through too quickly for much arterial spray. Most of it misses him, but a few drops land on his chest and arms and face.

The second it's done, the steel in Dean's veins runs cold and he looks at his own hands. He's never killed a person before. Not a real person. He lets out a shaking breath and runs one of his numb hands over his feverish face, wiping the blood away. He deserved it. The bastard deserved it. He wasn't an innocent man, but then…can Dean ever claim to be an innocent man now?

“Fuck,” He shudders as he walks away from the still twitching corpse. “Fuck…”

It's done. No taking it back. Move forward, Dean. What's your next step?

“The auction,” Dean nods to himself, turning back only to wipe his knife on Dimitri's shirt before strapping it to his ankle. He goes to the bed and tucks the pad of paper into the briefcase, closing it up tight. He slips his leather jacket on and takes a few calming breaths, glad at least that Dimitri's blood only smells like iron, a scent Dean is so familiar with that it doesn't bother him.

He checks the dead man's pockets, takes his car keys, his wallet—huge wad of cash in there—takes his jewelry, even his shoes and coat. He picks up the discarded gun and magazine, takes the crushed remnants of his cellphone, shoves it all into the briefcase. He leaves nothing behind but the Russian's slowly cooling body. As he's walking out he notices the rental car parked nearby and presses the remote from Dimitri's pocket, sees the headlights flash.

Dean checks Ezra's watch. There's plenty of time.

First he jogs about a block to put the briefcase, shoes, and coat into the Impala. He quickly changes his own shirts, ignoring the little splotches of rusty red staining the cotton; now he wears a black tee with a burgundy button down over top. Then he goes back for the rental car, driving off and ditching it in a suburb as far as he can manage with the time constraint; he takes the license plates and leaves the doors unlocked. He catches the bus back to the general neighborhood of the Stay Inn and then hoofs it the rest of the way back to his Baby.

He doesn't go to the desk to check out, because he never checked in. He'd simply picked the lock into an empty room and waited. There's nothing to trace this back to him, no way the cops will ever find him, no way they'll even _suspect_ him. Bobby helped him and Dad burn off their fingerprints the year before last, after Dad almost got put away for a triple homicide committed by a pissed off ghost. There's nothing to attach Dean to the mur—the _crime scene_. He was careful. He won't get caught.

He ditches the shoes and coat in the opposite direction of the rental car, edging on downtown, but careful to skirt any of the buildings nice enough to have security cameras. Ditches the jewelry into a few different panhandling cups, street performer hats, and instrument cases.

By the time he's done, it's well after three and he's gotta book it to the Riverfront warehouse district to make it in time. Again, he parks the Impala about 100 yards away, behind a stack of shipping containers, watches the traffic and movement for as long as he can. He starts to see more rental cars, and cars just the edge of too ritzy for this part of town. He starts to see people going for the warehouse marked on the MapQuest instructions, starts to see the doors opening and people admitted in, little groups, two or three at a time.

“Alright,” Dean breathes the word in, knee bouncing nervously. He's about to walk right into the viper's den, get the faces and names of as many of these motherfuckers as he can, buy as many of the girls as he can and take 'em to a goddamn police station or shelter or something.

He pulls his phone out of his breast pocket, rattling around beside his round flask of holy water, scrolls through his contacts and lands on _'Jeff Morgan,'_ his code name for Dad. Grits his teeth and keeps scrolling 'til he hits _'Jim Beaver,_ ' his code name for Bobby. Dean hits the call button and puts the phone to his ear.

Three rings and then a gruff voice answering, _“Singer Salvage.”_

“Bobby,” Dean starts, “Hey, it's me.”

“ _Dean,"_ Bobby says, and his voice noticeably warms. _“Finished up that vengeful yet?”_

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says rubbing at his eyes as he tries to think of a way to say this, “Listen, Bobby, I gotta tell you somethin' okay? But, uh… you think you could keep it quiet from Dad for now?”

Dean's met with a short silence over the line, internally prays to no god that Bobby will side with him this time.

“ _Alright,”_ Bobby finally grunts, _“'M listenin'.”_

“Right, so I uh… well long story short, I'm in Detroit. And I'm 'bout to walk into somethin' I…” Dean takes a breath. “Not exactly our usual type of huntin'. But I got a lead, and I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do somethin', Bobby. So I just, I just had to let you know.”

“ _The hell's goin' on? You need help?”_

“No,” Dean shakes his head even though Bobby can't see it, “No, there's no time for that. I'm at a warehouse, Riverfront,” Dean gives him the address, “I caught a demon and—and his friends are gonna be in there. I got his stuff, gonna see if I can slip in and save some… hostages.”

“ _Dean, you're not makin' any goddamn sense,”_ Bobby snaps. _“You are not James Bond, ya idjit!_ _Now_ _ **tell**_ _me what the hell is goin' on!”_

“Alright!” Dean yells in frustration. “They're sellin' people, Bobby. Little girls… And I can save a few of 'em. So I'm goin' in, okay? I've got a list of all the people involved, it'll be under the driver's seat of the Impala if I don't make it out.”

“ _Dam_ _n_ _it Dean, that kinda mess ain't our business! You stay the hell out of it,”_ Bobby orders, and Dean's glad he didn't call his father. He can ignore Bobby if he has to, but he couldn't if his dad issued that order.

“I couldn't live with myself,” Dean repeats softly, remembers that he killed a man today and lets out a slow breath. “I'm goin' in. I've got everything, they'll think I'm just a customer. I've been careful. It should be fine, I just… I just needed somebody to know.”

“ _Well screw you,”_ Bobby snaps, _“I'm not your_ 'somebody to know,' _Dean. You gonna_ _ignore what I told you_ _and get your fool head blown off, don't you lay that on me.”_

“Sorry, Bobby,” Dean shakes his head and then ends the call. That went about as well as expected.

He checks Ezra's watch and sees that it's five minutes past four. Time to go. He leaves the pad of paper beneath the drivers seat, like he said he would. He sticks Dimitri's gun under there too, knows he can't ditch it just yet, not in Detroit. He opens the Impala's door with a creak and dumps the shattered remnants of Dimitri's phone straight on the ground. Now all that's left in the briefcase is two wallets, a set of Ferarri keys, Ezra's powered off cellphone, a passport, a laptop, and a ticket. Dean pulls the ticket out and tucks it into his breast pocket with his own cell phone. One more deep breath, he steps out of his Baby, locks her up, and marches towards the entrance like a man who owns the world but doesn't want anyone to notice today.

He reaches a thick metal door, maroon from the oxidation. Dean knocks like he's seen all the others do and the door opens to reveal a burly guard and a sharply dressed lady.

“Alone?” The lady asks with a British accent. White, young but confident, competent, early-twenties, brunette, highlights, expensive, expensive, expensive, spelled all over every inch of her.

“Yes,” Dean nods, face impassive. “It seems my partner had other business to attend to.”

“Isn't that unfortunate,” The lady says, enunciation slow and clear, and her cat eyes are sharper than scalpels. Before she can offer out her hand, Dean pulls the ticket from his pocket and hands it to her.

She then gives it to the guard. Dean looks him over: Black, well-trained, ex-military, tattoo on his bicep: eagle, anchor, trident—Navy SEAL—definitely pushing the 250 pound mark, all muscle, gun at his hip, no jewelry, nondescript clothing, not rich, or at least not broadcasting, not here to shop.

The guard scans the ticket with some big inventory scanner gun lookin' thing. It beeps and then the guard drops the ticket through a slot on a heavily locked box sitting on a table to his left. The guard slides out a smaller plastic shape, like a pager, from the end of the scanner and hands it over to the lady. Dean watches as the guard picks up another pager from the table and slides it onto the end of the scanner. He has no clue what the hell that is.

The lady looks down at the pager in her hands and then grins.

“ _Luc,_ ” She hums seductively, looking back up at Dean, “I never figured you'd be quite so handsome.”

“They never do,” Dean smirks, lets his eyes smolder. She holds out the pager for him to take and Dean does, slipping it into his pocket casually, as though he knows exactly what it's for.

“Well we must have a chat later. I've heard that you and I might be in _very_ similar lines of business.” She smiles enigmatically at him, perfect pink lipstick on perfect pink lips.

Dean's careful to keep his expression cool and aloof but with a hint of interest. “I'm sure we'll find the time somewhere,” He twitches his lips into a little smile for her, “But today I'm not here to talk business. I'm here to shop.”

The lady's supple mouth pulls up into devilish little grin and she raises one flawlessly shaped brow, “Perfectly understandable, darling. Go right on in.”

Dean tips his head once in respect to the guard, but pauses just as he's about to pass the lady. She's fuckin' hot too, and for a second, Dean's not quite sure if she's being forced into this. He turns his head to look at her, deep into her eyes. She stares back and it's all ice and control and greed. She's not a victim here. Dean leaves her with one last lingering look before walking forward without another word.

Inside is bare and empty, a hallway with people standing together in tight little groups of two or three. Dean knows they've all got to be loaded to afford buying _people_ , but everyone is dressed casually; a few suits here, some shiny blouses there, but nothing you couldn't see at a middle class office party. Even in his leather jacket and jeans, Dean blends. Everyone avoids the eyes of everyone else, whispers drop into silence whenever someone passes by. He makes note of every face, every distinguishing feature, loiters around long enough to hear a few more names and tries to commit them to memory. Drinks are offered at a makeshift bar and Dean takes one, just to be gracious, and also because he's sure that bottle of single-malt costs more than your average sedan.

This is just the hallway, Dean realizes, not the main attraction, but there're guards everywhere, positioned to see every corner, every doorway. They really aren't kidding around about security here. At the end of the second hallway is a set of double doors with two guards standing in front of it. There's no line, but Dean's sure this is the entrance to the main event, the selling floor.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Dean nods to them.

“Up the stairs,” One of them replies disinterestedly. “Be sure you're ready to enter, sir. You can't come back this way once you do.”

Dean glances behind him but there's nothing else here for him and no reason to wait. He nods his head towards the doors and the guards open it for him. Dean raises his drink towards them as he passes, thinking briefly that he could grow to like being rich and powerful if it didn't mean becoming like all these fuckin' scumbags hangin' around here.

Up the stairwell, he reaches the next landing to see that the doors ahead of him have been removed from their hinges, creating an archway that leads straight into a wide, dark room. As he steps inside, he realizes this isn't the full space of the warehouse, fabricated barricades surrounding them on three sides. The barricades have black out curtains covering them from top to bottom, riveted in place so they can't be pulled aside. Even the ceiling is obscured, the same thick, black fabric stretching above them. Dean guesses this is to control the entrance and exit and limit access to other parts of the warehouse. It creates a tightly contained space, but still offers enough room that it isn't crowded at all. There are easily fifty people here. Dean walks forward, trying to take it all in, mark all the details.

There's a stage in the center, only about two and a half feet high. It's more like a circular runway, the center is a hole in the floor and a rolling metal step ladder leading up from what looks like pitch black. The runway itself is black on the outside, but the top, the surface where the naked girls stand is glowing opaque white. Suspended above is a circle of spotlights, illuminating only the girls, the rest of the room maintaining a shadowy dance club atmosphere complete with soft instrumental music; the spotlights are so bright and set against such a dark ceiling, that Dean can't tell how it's supported but he figures that hardly matters. Dean swallows and looks away, taking in the rest of the room. There are folding chairs set haphazardly around the stage, not the rickety metal kind you find at schools and churches, but not noticeably fancy either. Just cushioned, black folding chairs, more of them lined up along the right wall. There's another bar to the left but this one doesn't look so makeshift; it's glowing the same as the runway, a topless girl in her mid twenties serving drinks.

There are guards at the door, at each corner of the fabricated walls, all standing at the ready, all armed.

The thing that snares the most of his attention though is the back wall, opposite the doorless archway he entered from. Unlike the rest of the fabricated walls, covered in heavy black cloth, this side is white. A projector is showing a grid of girls' pictures, bare from the collarbones up, just like the pictures on Ezra's computer. At the top of each picture, above the girls' heads there is a four digit number, along the left side spelled vertically there is a name and age, and along the bottom of each picture there is a price in USD. The pictures are all the same, stark white background, topless girl, straight to camera, no smile, almost like mugshots. They're arranged in a 4X3 grid. To the right of the grid is space for a full length picture, naked from head to toe, always matching the girl at the front of the circle runway. When all of the girls walk around to the right and a new girl takes the front, the full length picture changes to her. The grid is of all the girls currently on stage, twelve of them.

As he's watching, one of the pictures goes shadowy, the word _**'SOLD'**_ flashing up across her face. A voice comes over loudspeaker at a moderate volume, but still audible to the entire room. _'Number_ _6_ _2_ _4_ _1, Christina,_ _s_ _old,'_ it says in a smooth female voice, almost robotic like those automated phone systems.

Dean holds his expensive scotch, only a few sips in his belly, but feels like he's about to puke all over himself.

He instead takes a burning swallow and walks forward, joining the little crowd around the dais, weaving through them to get closer. The glowing floor of the runway reminds him of a strip club, but the girls are fully naked and not dancing. They're just standing there, dolled up with their hair smooth, their bodies clean, and just a smidge of make up, but hollow eyed and silent. Closer to the stage, Dean can hear a faint click that sounds off every half minute or so, and that's what makes the girls walk around in a circle. These ones are all aged 16 to 18. Mostly white, but there are some Hispanic and Asian and Indian (dots, not feathers), one mixed girl that Dean guesses is half black from her thick curls.

On the screen, a couple of the mugshots are bordered in bright green. One of the pictures has a flashing border; it flashes ten times and then goes dark, spelling out **_'SOLD,'_ ** the loudspeaker chiming, _'Number_ _61_ _31, Laura, sold,'_ and this time he sees one of the girls step down from the stage. She descends the step ladder at the center. Within thirty seconds, a new girl comes up and takes her place and the projection on the back screen now shows her in the line up.

Dean feels like he's shaking, but he looks down at the drink in his hand and finds the liquid steady and still in his tumbler.

He spends the next half hour watching silently, the consumers rather than the products. They order with their little pagers, type in the girl's four-digit code and their bid and then press send. He figures out that the green borders mean the bidding is active for that girl, and the flashing starts in the last ten seconds before the purchase is finalized. Just like downstairs, most everyone stands in groups of two or three, whispering softly to each other. Some of them are smiling, motioning towards the girls, watching them with predatory eyes. Dean can't imagine how anybody human could stand around and chat while naked teenage girls are paraded like cattle before them. It simply doesn't compute.

These people are missing something, missing that defining piece that separates man from monster.

Dean doesn't know how much is in Luc's account, but he knows the man planned to buy about five girls. Average prices are in the high hundreds of thousands, so he had to be planning to spend at least a few million. After a while of watching, waiting, calculating how many girls he can save, he notices that new girls are no longer coming up to replace the ones that've sold. Eventually there are only four girls left on stage.

After a minute, the prices on the projection go down. More silence, and the prices tick down again. Then two more of the girls sell; they walk down the step ladder and the prices for the remaining girls tick down again and again, until they too are sold. For one horrifying second, Dean thinks that's it, that he came here and did all this shit and didn't actually save anyone at all.

Then the screen flashes and the age group has gone down, **_'14 to 16.'_** Dean lets out a breath and resolves to actually buy a few this time. He figures it doesn't matter if he empties out Luc's account but he didn't really plan ahead about how to get them all out of here. Fuck, he should've lifted a delivery van from someplace.

The twelve girls all walk up the step ladder and this time, Dean can see flashes of light from down there. Maybe the step ladder is surrounded by the same blackout curtains, to keep the consumers and products from seeing each other too soon.

Dean actually forces his eyes to look at the girls this time. He mostly looks at their faces, takes in their thin, shivering bodies and grim expressions. It's very literally painful to watch. Dean spots a black girl, her price the lowest on the screen. She's a bit thicker than the other girls, skin the color of chocolate, hair straightened but stiff, reaching her shoulders. The screen says she's fifteen and her name is Shondra, $175,000. The four-digit code to buy her is 5921. Dean swallows back the rest of his whiskey and walks to the bar to set his glass down. He considers a re-fill but decides against it, instead turning back to watch the girls move around the circle.

He pulls the plastic pager from his pocket. It feels surprisingly cheap—kinda light, like it's mostly plastic. It's got a thin screen and a numerical keyboard along with one big button, which he's figured out is the _'enter'_ button. Dean types in, 5921 and hits enter. The screen comes up blank and it takes him a moment to realize he has to type in his bid next. He taps out 175,000 and hits the enter button again. On the screen, the border around Shondra's picture goes green and stays solid. Dean waits, counting the seconds; at exactly one minute, the border begins to flash. At the tenth flash, the picture goes dark and in his hand, _**'confirmed'**_ flashes across the little pager screen.

Before he even has time to look back up, he hears the loud speaker, _“Number_ _5921_ _, Shondra, sold.”_

In his mind, Dean knows he's not actually buying her, he knows he's going to take the girl to the police, get her back to her family, but his gut still twists at realizing what he's just done. It's nearly as bad as killing a person, and now he knows what that's like so he can make an accurate comparison. It was so easy, a couple clicks and he _owns_ someone.

Dean keeps watching the procession, searching for the cheaper girls so he can leave with more of them. It takes nearly forty-five minutes this time, but this age group ends the same as the last, the prices dropping on the least bid girls until they're bought up.

By the end Dean's bought two more. The second is sixteen year old Lucy, a redhead with freckles all over her body, for 290,000. The third is fourteen year old, Ren, a little Asian girl with dark tan skin and a huge scar curling across her hip and halfway down her thigh, dimpling the skin and muscle unnaturally. She's left 'til the very end, her price dropping under $100,000, standing there shaking with tear streaks on her face.

When Dean bids $100,000, instead of the **_'confirmed'_** he expects he sees the word **_'counter'_** and then the number $110,000 flashes up. Dean bets $125,000 and gets the **_'confirmed'_ ** screen again. The loudspeaker says, _“Number_ _55_ _26, Ren, sold,”_ and Dean actually feels something like relief. He just saved that girl from whoever else was going to buy her. She won't go home with them, she'll go back to her family. For the first time since he met Ezra in Ohio, he feels a little bit better.

He settles into one of the folding chairs on the left side of the circle, sitting as quietly and inconspicuously as he can manage while he waits for the next age group. Before the next rotation, the words **_'Special Collection'_ ** flash up on the projected screen. Dean doesn't have to wonder what that means for long because the screen clearly spells out, **_'140 lbs/63 kgs and above.'_** So the chubby girls? Though Dean doesn't really start to consider them chubby 'til somewhere around 160, and even that can be hot if she holds it well.

The girls that come up the step ladder next are 13 to 18, thicker than the girls before them. Dean buys one of them, a fourteen year old Hispanic girl named Yolanda, number 0901, for $225,000. The special collection goes much faster than the others, even though it takes longer for each individual girl to sell. Rather than girls coming up to replace the sold ones on a steady rotation, only four more come up before they've reached the end of the group. Once they're all sold, the next age group flashes on screen and Dean swallows back a mouthful of sour bile as he reads, **_'10 to 14'_.**

For the first time, he wonders exactly how low the ages go.

This cycle lasts over an hour and the girls are even more expensive than before. Deans starting to think that he might run out of money, but then hopefully he can just overdraw Ezra's account, get these girls out of here and disappear.

He buys three of them. Number 3117: Eleven year old Sung-Hyun, for $325,000—another little Asian girl, so small Dean could lift her with one hand without breaking a sweat. Number 3308: thirteen year old Anastázia, for $415,000—a fair blond, who bravely meets his eyes when she passes by him. Number 3349: twelve year old Wynona, for $480,000—a brunette with sun darkened skin and watery blue-gray eyes.

This time, he gets counter offers for all three and has to slowly haggle his way up without spending too much too fast. He wins all three, though he goes farther above their starting prices than he'd have liked, then feels like a complete asshole for even thinking something like that. Adding it all up, he's spent about two million so far, but if Ezra was going to buy five girls, he was going to spend over three million, easy—and that's with girls at mid-range price. Some of the priciest girls have been a million _each_. Dean's still sure he can afford to save a few more. And yeah, he really should've stolen a van.

At the end of that group, the prices don't drop, every girl already bought at price. Dean has a feeling that the bidding is going to get more competitive as they move to lower age groups. Maybe the younger girls are harder to capture? Or in higher demand? Though he'd really rather not consider that latter possibility too closely.

The next group, he thinks is the hardest he's had to watch so far: ages 5 to 10. By this point, anyone who was still downstairs has made their way up and the bidding floor is filled, adding mild claustrophobia to the creepy club vibe. As soon as the pictures are up on the screen, the little girls—fuckin' _elementary school age_ —nervously making their way out onto the runway with jittery legs, the clicking of pager buttons echoes through the room.

This round also lasts a while, but the girls cycle through much faster than before, the _'SOLD'_ word flashing up on the projection screen each and every minute that passes. Dean manages to buy three more and thinks that's as much as he'll be able to do. The next age group, 0 to 5 he's guessing, will be even more expensive than these girls and honestly, Dean needs to get the hell out of here before everyone else. He can't stay all the way to the end.

He buys number 2271: six year old Tatianna, a little Hispanic girl with soft brown sugar curls, for $537,000. Number 2637: nine year old Sareema, a middle-eastern girl with sepia skin and long raven black hair, for $495,000. Number 2099: five year old Hannah, a blonde with big blue eyes, for $642,000; she's so tiny that Dean can't even look at her naked body, can't imagine anyone doing to her what he knows all these people are really here for. He instead looks only at her picture on the projection screen.

He doesn't get a warning from the pager thing, but he knows that's probably over budget at this point and the last thing he needs is anyone asking questions. That's it, he's done all he could do. He saved ten girls from this horrible nightmare. Ten little girls will go home to their parents, or failing that at least live someplace safe. Ten little girls who won't ever be like Miranda.

Dean feels satisfied, but not happy. There are literally hundreds of girls he couldn't save today and not just in Detroit, all over the world. He realizes he's probably never going to sleep easy for the rest of his life.

He stands from his folding chair and starts searching for an exit or somebody in charge of this whole thing. Luckily, he spots the lady from the front door standing primly by the bar with a stemless glass of wine in her hand. He approaches and a slow smile curls on her lips as soon as she notices him.

“Luc, darling,” She greets him at a whisper when he steps up close to her, just loud enough to be heard over the music and hushed voices of other patrons. “I hope you found everything to your liking.”

“More than I'd dared to dream,” Dean says and then dials it down a notch when he sees the laughter twinkling in her eyes. “Though I think I'm just about ready to call it night. I've already gone a bit over budget,” He admits with a self-deprecating smile.

“You? Budget?” She asks, mirthful smile carefully contained.

“I know,” Dean sighs, “But I do have my limits, as I'm sure you're aware.”

She finishes the rest of her rosé in one dainty swallow before setting her glass back down on the bar.

“Another, Ms. Lugosi?” The girl working behind the bar asks softly. And Ms. Lugosi simply waves her hand in a dismissive gesture that apparently means _'no.'_

“How many did you purchase?” She asks, and Dean pauses, unsure if he should answer. “For planning your deliveries, of course,” She adds innocently at his hesitance.

“Ten,” Dean answers honestly.

Her eyebrows rise dramatically, as if she thinks he's joking. “Ten?” She asks incredulous.

Dean decides to play it up. He's supposed to be an incubus after all, and he needs her to go with him on this.

“Ms. Lugosi,” he starts in a deep voice, leaning in close to make their conversation more intimate and urgent.

“Please,” She interrupts him softly, tilting her head back to expose the elegant curve of her throat, “Bela.”

 _Bela Lugosi,_ Dean thinks sarcastically, _real cute._

But he smiles at her instead, using his eyes the best way he knows how. “Bela,” he husks, “If you and I truly work in similar business, you know exactly what I'll be doing with my purchases.”

She blinks at him and for a split second, Dean's sure that he's lost her, that he's about to get laughed at or worse, kicked out. But her smile drops and her eyes turn solemn and dangerous, arctic cold. It's such a sudden switch that Dean's genuinely surprised.

“I am aware, Luc,” She replies lowly, accented voice as smooth as honey. “So I suppose we'll deliver them the same as always.”

“No,” Dean says quickly, averting his eyes briefly as though considering something else. “I need them tonight.”

This time, Bela doesn't hold in her scoffed laughter, “Tonight? Have you gone 'round the bend?”

“I think we both know I haven't. And that I have a habit of getting my way,” Dean looms a little closer, but the stunt fails. Bela doesn't look the least bit intimidated.

“So do toddlers, and you see where some of them end up,” She parries with precision so sharp Dean's left floundering for a second. How the fuck can someone say something like that? Bela sighs, her hard expression turning thoughtful and indulgent. “Luc, I happen to think we could become very lucrative partners, so perhaps I'll manage to deliver three of them in the first week. But certainly even you know I can't just have ten girls shipped to New York overnight.”

Dean forces his smooth smile back in place, calculating as fast as he can. “You misunderstand. These girls are not for my personal use.”

Now Bela is caught off guard, he can see it in her pause. “No?” She asks.

Dean shakes his head ominously. He improvises. “We all answer to someone, Bela. There's an… _event_ , even more exclusive than this one. I'm bringing the… entertainment.”

Bela tips her head back, eyes alight with her own calculations, taking in this new information. “I wasn't made privy to anything of the sort.”

“You wouldn't be,” Dean huffs a soft laugh, silently wondering what the hell _'privy'_ means. “Hell, I had to fight for my invite. Where do you think that leaves you?”

Her eyes noticeably harden. Dean backtracks.

“Look,” He says with a sigh, “I know it's a lot to ask. But how about I pick them up myself? I can arrange for a delivery truck to arrive here just before the auction closes. Place the girls in, I leave—and you know that I of all people can be discrete.”

She doesn't reply, but she doesn't protest. She waiting for something, he realizes.

_What's in it for her?_

Dean looks down again and purses his lips as though considering. He speaks slowly, careful over each word, “I also happen to think you and I could be successful business partners. Let this be our first deal. You do this for me, and I'll owe you a favor.”

“A favor?” She asks, a hint of humor in her voice, but she's not laughing it off. He can see the greed creeping back into her eyes and knows he's almost got her.

“Yes, one favor,” Dean nods, close enough to kiss her now, if he wanted. He absolutely doesn't. “To be cashed in at your… discretion. You call me, and you'll have me and mine at your disposal for whatever you desire.” He's promising too much, catches a whiff of suspicion and pulls back, “Though I must stress, it is only _one_ favor.”

Bela takes in a breath through her nose, blinking her long lashes sultrily at him as she thinks it over. He knows he's got her when her lips twitch into a little smile. “One favor,” She repeats in her slow, carefully enunciated way with a nod, “To be called in at any time in the future.”

Dean nods once, trying not to let his relief show on his face.

“And you'll pick up your purchases tonight, before auction close, _discretely?”_ She asks.

“Exactly,” Dean nods once more.

Bela leans close enough that her silken, painted lips brush his, “Then I believe we have a deal, Luc.”

She expects a kiss he realizes, a _demon deal_. He can't smile anymore, sincerely grossed out at the thought of kissing her. She may be hot, but she's completely fuckin' evil to run something like this and he'd prefer if his lips never came within ten feet of her.

Instead, he forces himself to tilt up her chin carefully with his index finger and press a warm, wine sour kiss to her plush mouth. It's rather chaste and lasts only a few seconds before Dean pulls away.

“I'll be back in an hour,” he tells her, already thinking ahead to where he can find and steal a delivery truck that quickly.

She simpers at him smugly and turns back to the bar. “On second thought, Felicia, I will have another,” Bela tells the topless bartender.

Dean turns to walk away, just in time to see the last of the girls aged 5 to 10 go down the step ladder in the middle. He's making his way through the crowd, heading for the archway he entered through hours ago. When he reaches it a guard stops him with a hand up.

“Sorry sir,” The man tells him, “You can't go back this way. The exit is there to your left.”

Dean follows the man's head nod to a shadowy door in part of the fabricated wall, flanked by two more security guards. Dean nods and begins to head that way when his attention is caught by the words **_'Special Collection'_** flashing up on the projected screen again. Curious, he pauses just long enough to see the explanation about the next group. _' **Boys,'**_ the screen reads and Dean's stomach flip flops, **_'Ages 5 to 20.'_**

The first twelve names and faces flash up on the screen and Dean can't walk away from this. He closes his eyes to fight the swell of rage and sickness at the thought of his own missing brother, at the thought that these boys' families would go through what he and his father have for the past four years.

Instead of heading for the exit, Dean lingers in the crowd, watching the boys come up onto the runway.

There are a fair number of them, but they're all ages between five and twenty, so it's not entirely unexpected. Dean buys number 9803: a thirteen year old named Elliot, at $285,000. Still no warning from the little pager thing, and now he's going to have some more explaining to do when he shows up for his delivery later. But for that boy's life? It's more than worth it.

He watches a little longer, hoping that the prices will drop at the end again and he can maybe squeeze in one more.

Dean's heart stops at some point.

His eyes aren't registering right.

He nearly drops the little pager in his hand, and only his reflexes keep it from falling, his fingers clenching tight while his brain stalls. No, not stalled. It's a full engine blow-out up there.

There's a boy and he looks—but it can't be… that's just straight up impossible.

His feet carry him toward the stage and with every step he feels more himself, more Dean Winchester than this charade he's been dutifully keeping up. He steps closer to the runway, just a few rows back from touching it and stares up at a naked nineteen year old boy.

The scar across his left shoulder has stretched, his chestnut hair has grown long enough to hide his eyes, his skin is tanned, but everything is the same. Dean stares up at the boy's face and counts the moles, one on the right side of his chin, one on the right side of his mouth, one just to the left of his nose, and a tiny one just below his left eye. Dean should probably be hyperventilating, but instead it's like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, as though he's in a vacuum and his lungs can't inflate.

Then the loudspeaker goes off, _“Number 9972: Conner, sold.”_ Dean looks to the screen and see's his brother's picture rimmed in green. That shocks him out of his stupor and he gets a hold of himself in a split second, horrified to the core at the mere possibility that someone could buy this boy before Dean has a chance.

He searches the screen for his brother's number and finds it. Number 9993: Caleb, price set at $300,000. The name throws him off but Dean examines the face one more time and even if he's wrong, the likeness is too uncanny to risk it.

Dean types in 400,000 and hopes that's enough, regrets every single other kid he bought. Would spend all of it on just this one.

 ** _'Counter,'_ ** the pager reads, **_'415,000.'_**

He can't type into his little pager fast enough, sending a bid of 500,000. He's escalating this too quickly, but he doesn't care how much he spends. He has to win.

He waits, palms sweating and the screen flashes **_'counter,'_ ** then, _' **550,000'**_

Dean growls loud enough to make a lady beside him flinch away in shock as he hurriedly taps out 750,000.

He waits, and waits, and waits, hands sweating, heart racing.

 ** _'Confirmed,'_ ** the pager reads and Dean comes the closest he ever has to fainting without serious blood loss involved.

He looks up and sees the boy looking right at him, hazel eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and there's no way it's anybody else. It's him.

It's _Sam._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Hope that's not too much of a cliffhanger. If there's a bunch of readers clamoring to see what's next, I could post the next chapter early too. But I plan to have this fic on a weekly update schedule.
> 
> Btw, (shameless plug warning) if you liked this, you might like some of the other things I've written. I posted another new story yesterday, set in S07 that has a more immediate romantic pay off for the Winchesters. And I've got a zombie apocalypse story (as everyone eventually does). 
> 
> Like I said, I've been really shy about posting my work, so this is basically my introduction to the SPN fandom. But I figure it makes no sense to write for an audience of one, so I'll keep posting the things that have collected on my HDD over the years.
> 
> Kudos? Comments? Cookies? I kinda need a beta reader, anyone up for it?  
> Love you guys and I'm really happy I decided to share this with the community <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was Father's day and I ended up too busy to post, but the next update is here!
> 
> This fic is meant to be on a weekly update schedule, but this chapter is a little on the shorter side so I figured I'd relieve some of the suspense. The next chapter, longer and bit more emotional, will be up in a week.
> 
> Also, there is a video link in the story to help give a mental picture, but **you only need to watch less than 10 seconds.** You can skip around in the video to get a good look at it, but the whole thing is pretty long to sit through. I recommend muting the volume unless you're actually interested in the little details of delivery vans.
> 
> That said, enjoy!

The loudspeaker announces, _“Number 9993: Caleb, sold.”_

Dean watches, but Sam doesn't move, frozen in place and staring straight at him. His bare feet shuffle forward, like he's prepared to just make a run for it, to throw himself at Dean.

Dean subtly shakes his head and then casts a pointed glance to the step ladder. There's a pause as a few of the boys and patrons look around, knowing someone was sold but not seeing anyone step down from the stage. Finally, Sam seems to snap out of his shock and gets his legs moving, skinny and coltish, trembling as he turns to walk away. He keeps his eyes on Dean as long as he can, and then he's disappearing down the step ladder and after a few seconds another boy is coming up.

Dean can't get out of there fast enough. He's as polite as he can manage, but easily shoves a handful of people on his way to the exit. The security guards try to warn him, something about once you leave you can't return or whatever but Dean could not give two dusty fucks at this point. He ignores them, cutting off the guy mid-sentence and rushing through the door. His heart and mind and soul are a steady pulse of _Sam, Sammy, Sam, Sammy_ , as he jogs down the darkened hallway, past more guards. All he wants is to turn around and jump down that step ladder, grab up his brother, and run for the fuckin' hills.

But he's a professional and he's going to do this right. He's going to save all those damn kids, _and_ Sam and then… then… god, he doesn't know what next. He just has to get his hands on Sammy, to know he's real.

He reaches the exit, bursting through the door and out into the chilly autumn evening. He checks Ezra's watch and finds that it's already after 8 PM. The auction should be closing around 10 PM and he's gotta be back here well before that to pick up his kids with as few witnesses as possible.

Dean jumps into the Impala and floors it out of the warehouse district, heading towards downtown, looking for any place with vans or trucks big enough to hold ten people.

“C'mon, c'mon,” Dean mutters to himself as he cruises through business and residential areas, searching for something, anything that fits the bill. There are few vans that look like they might work, but they're either showing signs of rust and wear, or they're in too heavily populated places. Finally, he finds a closed flower and garden wholesale place about thirty minutes out from the warehouse auction.

Dean leaves the Impala parked half a block away. He goes to the trunk, taking only a cursory glance over his shoulder before pulling up the false bottom and propping it open with a sawed off. He tucks his Colt 1911 into the back of his jeans and grabs a slim jim, putting it into the breast pocket inside his leather jacket. He knows he probably won't be coming back for at least a few hours, so he also takes the rest of the cash from Ezra and Dimitri's wallets. After he locks up his Baby, Dean jogs through the darkened parking lot, breath misting in the air with every step, as he approaches one of the big, white delivery vans, on the side there's a modest logo of a colorful bouquet basket and words reading: _Jay's Flowers and Garden Wholesale_.

He walks around the truck to inspect it, but he's already decided that he doesn't have the time to search for another option. It's a medium sized step van, boxy and white. It takes less than twenty seconds to jimmy open the door lock and Dean climbs in, inspecting it. There's a metal sliding door between the driver and passenger seats that leads into the back. He walks through, ducking down to keep from hitting his head and goes to the back doors. They unlock from the inside so he doesn't need a key.

This'll work.

It takes less than five minutes to hotwire the starter. Then he's on his way, carefully maintaining a steady breathing rhythm, just so he won't start screaming from joy or terror or both. The drive back to the warehouse is longer than it seemed in the Impala, but he makes it at a quarter past 9 PM, backing straight up to the front door. He leaves the van idling and exits through the back to open the loading doors, jumping out to knock on the entrance to the warehouse. He realizes in the two seconds he has before the door opens that looking as flushed and harried as he does is not going to win Bela over. Luckily, she's not the one who answers.

It's the same guard he first saw, the Navy SEAL.

“Ms. Lugosi said you'd return for your merchandise. Ten girls—”

“And two boys,” Dean adds as nonchalantly as he can manage. He remembers suddenly, pulling the pager from his pocket, “Here, I expect you'll be needing this back then.”

“Normally you'd keep it,” the guard says, “To verify purchases and deliveries, but since you're picking them up now…”

The guard takes the pager, looking slightly uneasy, like he's not sure whether he's going to get in trouble for this shit later. Dean reaches into his other pocket and pulls out some of Ezra's or Dimitri's money, he can't remember whose. He hands the guy 500 bucks and smiles at him, “For your trouble.”

The guard stares down at the money with a subtle expression akin to disgust across his face, probably doesn't want to touch these kinds of dirty gains any more than Dean. But the ex-soldier apparently thinks better of it, taking the wad of cash and pushing it into his own pocket.

“I'll bring them out, sir.”

As soon as the guard turns away, Dean's letting out a heavy breath, part of him not really believing that he's managed to pull this whole thing off. And Sam, Sam, _Sam._ Part of him really doesn't believe that either. It must've been a trick of the light, a mistake, some kind of look alike or coincidence.

He doesn't let himself think too hard about it, instead concentrating on opening up the [back of the van.](https://youtu.be/Q10_UcTfE-k?t=2m13s) It's mostly empty, though there are two shelves on either side and hooks on the ceiling that Dean assumes are for the flowers they ship around. Dean steps into the back and folds up the top most shelf on both sides, using the levers on each end to secure them in that position. This turns the lowest shelf into something like a bench. He glances around for anything else to fix, notes a couple stray flower pots left in one corner. It's not exactly clean either, gardening soil spread in a thin layer across the chrome flooring, gathering in the grooves of the metal; Dean tries to kick some of it out, but it's a lost cause without a broom. He's confident that there's space to fit them all, especially with how skinny some were. Though, maybe a couple kids will have to sit on laps.

“Mr. Lucianus, sir?” a voice comes behind him and Dean quickly turns, calmed down enough now to play his part accurately.

“Yes,” he says, jumping back out of the truck gracefully, “You've brought them?”

“Yes, sir,” The man nods, eying the back of the van with some misgiving about the amount of space. “All twelve of them. Ms. Lugosi sends her regards.”

“Excellent,” Dean says, and maybe he sounds more like a cartoon villain than a suave, evil millionaire like he's mean to. At this point, he's only gotta last a few more minutes. “Return my regards to her, if you would. Now the—merchandise,” Dean stumbles a little over the last word, almost said _'kids'_.

The guard's face hardens a bit, and Dean gets the distinct impression that this guy isn't really into selling kids to perverts. That makes Dean like him just a little bit more.

Lucy, the redhead, comes out of the door first, dressed in a simple cloth dress with little flowers on it. She glares at him as he motions her into the van. The guard is watching and Dean has to play his part. He glares right back at her, his stare far more sinister than what a teenage girl could manage.

“Don't make me tell you twice,” Dean says darkly, channeling the way his own father says that sentence, the way that always makes Dean obey. He immediately feels like a jackass when he sees her eyes cloud over with fear.

“In,” Dean motions again, even helping her step up a little. She stumbles but manages to keep her feet and get inside. She walks far in, all the way to the front, and sits on one of the shelves.

The kids keep coming out the door, one by one, the girls dressed in cloth dresses of varying patterns and colors. Tatianna, is next, small enough that Dean has to lift her to get her into the van. Then Ren and Shondra. Hannah, the five year old, is crying and Dean has to lift her too. He turns to put his back to the guard and shushes her softly as he pulls her up to his chest, before placing her inside. Hannah runs forward and goes straight for Tatianna, sitting beside her and holding her hand. Next is Sareema, Yolanda, and Elliot. The boy wears a pair of khaki shorts and a plain white t-shirt, he's crying too, but silently; with tears dripping down his freckled cheeks, Elliot sidesteps Dean on his way into the truck, careful not to touch him. Dean is jittery as he watches Sung-Hyun, Anastázia, and Wynona come out next.

Of course. Of course Sam, Caleb, _Sam_ comes out last. That's exactly Dean's luck.

Dean takes in the vision of his brother and it's like walking into a dream. He's barefoot, like the rest of them, wearing a faded pair of pale blue jeans and a white t-shirt. But all Dean can see is that he's alive, that he's okay, that he's really here, and it's enough to take his breath away. Sam glances into the back of the van once, but his eyes are all for Dean. He stares like the world will disappear if he blinks and Dean stares right back with equal fervor.

By the time Sam stands before him, same height as Dean now, easily over six feet, the back of the van is crowded. The kids are mostly huddled together, the youngest sitting in the laps of the elder girls as he predicted. Elliot has found a place next to Lucy, the redheaded teenager wrapping an arm around the young boy's shoulders.

“You…” Dean says looking at Sam, voice dry and thin. He clears his throat, “Up front with me.”

“Sir,” The guard tries to interrupt.

“I assure you,” Dean talks over him, eyes still stuck on Sam. “The utmost discretion. I've got another transport waiting only a few miles from here.”

The guard lapses into silence, glancing back and forth between Sam and Dean like he's trying to figure something out.

“Thank you again,” Dean adds and then closes the doors at the back of the step van, tugging the handle once to be sure they're secure. He ushers Sam to the passenger seat, then takes his place behind the wheel and drives off.

Sam takes one look at the wires hanging loose beneath the steering column and a cautious little smile pulls up on his lips.

Dean looks away, focusing on the road. He needs to get a distance of at least a few miles between them and that auction before it's safe to talk. He can't even look at Sam right now, as much as he wants to. He wants nothing more than to pull over and get Sammy in his arms but he's still on a job, still in the middle of a hunt, and lives are depending on him. He has to concentrate or this whole thing could fall apart. Dean watches from the corner of his eyes as the prolonged silence slowly kills Sammy's little smile.

Dean manages to wait until he's a couple miles away from the warehouse district, long enough that he's reasonably sure no one is following them, but then he can't take it anymore. He reaches back and opens the sliding metal door leading to the cargo area.

“Everybody okay back there?” Dean calls to the piled kids swaying with the movement of the van. He gets no response. He notices them bumping around with every turn and speed bump. “Sorry guys, I'm goin' a little fast so it might be a bumpy ride. But I promise you, everything is gonna be okay.”

Still no response.

“Hey, Lucy,” Dean singles out, trying to get at least one of them to talk to him, “Think you're the oldest. Can you check on everyone for me?”

There's another minute of silence, and there's no rearview mirror in this thing, so he has to turn and look over his shoulder to check on them.

“We're fine,” Comes a soft response.

From the passenger seat, Sam is turned towards him, nervously picking at his own fingers and watching Dean closely.

“Do you know how to kill a ghost?” Sam whispers.

Dean turns to look at him and gives a watery little smile, sniffling as he tries not be completely overwhelmed with the fact that he was right. This _is_ Sam. Not a look alike, not an illusion. His fuckin' brother. His fuckin' _Sammy_.

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean replies thickly, trying his damndest not to cry, “Salt'n'burn 'em. Just like Dad taught us.”

Sam bites his bottom lip hard, eyes glistening and then nods, head dipping low to hide his face behind a wall of thick hair. It takes him a while to find his voice again and when he does, it's thick with unshed tears. “The fuck are you doin' here, Dean?” he asks, looking back up with watery, red-rimmed eyes.

Dean laughs, laughs so hard he does start crying, but he prefers laughing to sobbing. “It is a long, _long_ fuckin' story, Sammy," he says, wiping the wetness from the corners of his eyes, "Promise I'll tell you the whole thing after we get these kids safe, okay?”

Sam nods again and then looks out the window. Dean hears Sam sniffling too, sees him pinch up bruises onto his own forearms, trying to wake himself up. It's one of the saddest, sweetest things Dean's ever seen and he doesn't know how to process at the moment. Concentrates back on the road after he hits a pot hole and one of the little girls in the back yelps in surprise.

“Okay, everybody,” Dean says wiping his face, sniffing hard. “I'm gonna pull over soon and we'll have a little chat, alright? You guys hang on to the little ones.”

No response.

Dean drives until he finds a shady and secluded alley behind a small strip mall. He pulls the truck over, and untwists the wires beneath the ignition to cut the engine and the lights, nice and inconspicuous. Dean turns around in his seat and tries to look at the kids, but it's too dark. He reaches into his front jeans pocket where he always carries a little pen-light. It's small but bright white, and when he aims it back there the kids all squint and shield their eyes.

“Hey there,” He smiles, trying to be disarming. It's an act, but Dean prefers that to letting his face do whatever emotional obstacle course it wants, “I know you're all pretty scared, but I didn't buy you, okay? I rescued you.”

He's still met with silence.

“My name's Dean,” He starts again, “Dean Winchester. And I snuck in there, to save as many kids as I could. You guys are it. So now I'm gonna take you to the police, okay? And they're gonna make sure you get home safe.”

After another minute of silence Sam chimes in, “He's serious.” The kids actually look to him, meeting his eyes the way the don't with Dean. They trust Sam. “This is… this is my brother,” Sammy says turning to look at him, gaze skimming over Dean's face again, “He saved us.”

“You're… You're not kidding,” Shondra says, arms squeezing little Tatianna tighter where she's holding the six year old in her lap. “We're gonna go home?”

“Not kidding,” Dean assures sincerely, “You can go wherever the hell you want to. You're free.”

“This is some kinda—” Lucy starts, shaking her head, eyes distrustful and intent, “This is some kinda trick.”

“I swear on my life,” Dean tells her, voice dropping to a low and solemn pitch, “It's not.”

There's another minute of quiet before Shondra adds, “I think some of them don't speak English.” She nods her head towards Sung-Hyun who's sitting closely with Ren.

“I'm sure the cops will help us figure it out,” Dean says, though he honestly hadn't really considered that and isn't sure how the police will handle it, “And even if we can't get you home, or… maybe you don't wanna go back home, for any reason. We'll find you a good place to live, okay? A safe place.”

“Can we go to Texas?” One of the girls asks plaintively and it takes Dean a second to figure out which one. Wynona, the twelve year old.

“Hell yeah,” Dean grins, showing teeth and everything. He's not gonna fuckin' cry. “If you want me to drive you straight to Texas I'll do it.”

“I'm from Colorado,” Another one cuts in, “My name's not Yolanda. It's Marizol.”

“Okay, Marizol,” Dean nods, “Where in Colorado? Do you remember?”

She nods back eagerly, dark bangs swaying around her face, “Yeah, Aurora.”

“Hey, I've been there before,” Dean says kindly, “Nice place. You're family live in Aurora?”

“Y-yeah,” She starts crying, shaking and sobbing wetly, face in her hands.

“It's okay, honey,” Dean tries, can't stand seeing girls cry, “Don't cry. You're gonna see them again, I promise.”

“Thank you,” She squeaks, so high pitched it's almost unintelligible, _“Thank you.”_

Anastázia says something, not in English, but it sounds like a warning. She's clearly unsettled by Marizol's sudden tears, and her body is tense like she's ready to react but not sure where the danger is.

“I don't know how to—” Dean starts and then sighs. She won't understand him even if he tries to comfort her. “Look, I'll be honest, I'm not totally sure which police to take ya'll to just yet, but I'm gonna figure it out and get you safe. Meantime, I'm guessing you're thirsty? Hungry?”

Eager nods meet him this time. “Hungry,” the Indian girl, Sareema if Dean remembers correctly, says; he's glad she speaks English. “Thirsty,” Wynona adds.

“ _Cold,”_ Elliot says, peeking up beneath his dirty blond hair at Dean. When Dean returns the gaze, the boy quickly looks away.

“Alright,” Dean nods, feeling instantly better with goals he can actually meet, “Food, water, and blankets. I'm on it.”

He puts his penlight back in his pocket before reaching beneath the steering for the ignition and battery wires again, but he's drawn up short by a sharp buzzing against his heart. Dean sits up and pats down his chest, finding his cellphone still in his breast pocket. He closes his eyes hoping to hell it's not Dad. When he dares glance at the lit screen, he lets out a relieved sigh at seeing the name _'Jim Beaver'_ flashing up at him.

Dean hits _'call.'_

“Bobby, hey,” He says, coughing once when he realizes his voice is a lot thicker than socially acceptable. “What's up?”

“ _Don't you_ _ **'what's up'**_ _me, boy,”_ Bobby snaps in response. _“You know why I'm callin'.”_

Dean lets out one burst of incredulous laughter and slumps back into his seat, finally relaxing into his own skin, “Yeah. It all went down, fine. I got twelve of 'em out. Sittin' in a delivery truck, back alley in Detroit. We're all safe.”

“ _Good,”_ Bobby gruffs, and he sounds reluctantly pleased. _“Well I figured with the kind if shit you stepped in, trustin' the Detroit PD may not be your best bet.”_

“What? Why not?” Dean asks, but even as the words escape his mouth he understands why. The kind of money that was at that auction? It'd be straight up stupid to believe there aren't some government high ups turnin' a blind eye. Maybe not the beat cops, but the Police Chief? The DA? The Mayor? Impossible to say, but somebody somewhere in the system is letting this happen.

“ _Because, ya idjit! You think millions of dollars pass hands like that without somebody in power noticin'? Now, I heard'a some…_ cases _like this. Lotta times, the cops just don't wanna investigate.”_

“S'fuckin' bullshit,” Dean breathes out his thoughts directly.

“ _Yeah, well what'd'y'expect? That's how it goes,”_ Bobby rumbles.

“So where do I take 'em?” Dean asks. He's gotta get them safe, he promised. Hell, he'll drive each one of them home if he has to. But more importantly he needs to be careful not to tip off Bela or her people about what he's done. It'd blow his cover as Luc way too early and then people could get hurt. These kids know stuff, have seen things, and some of those customers might pay and have them re-captured to keep them off a witness stand—or even permanently silenced. He's gotta do this right.

“ _Well, I called in a favor, with Sheriff Mills,”_ Bobby says, says her name lowly like he'd rather no one overhear him, like Dean and Dad don't already know about Bobby flirting with the Sioux Falls sheriff. _“Asked if there was someone trustworthy in the Michigan area for this sorta thing.”_

“And?” Dean asks, trying to cut to the chase.

“ _Kalamazoo,”_ Bobby says.

“You're kidding,” Dean replies. He always laughed at the name on maps but never had reason to drive through. He knows it's somewhere west of Detroit.

Bobby scoffs a short chuckle, _“Not kidding. She's_ _old friends with the Sheriff there, a Donna Hanscum. Says there's no one less likely to take bribes or turn a blind eye to corruption, but that she's a little, well…”_

“A little what?” Dean asks, brows drawing down in concern.

“ _Jody made it sound like she's off her nut, but says it's nuthin' to worry about. She's just… **friendly**.”_

“Friendly,” Dean chuckles the word wryly, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “As long as she's safe, I don't even care if she hugs me. So Kalamazoo, what's that, about an hour out the city?”

“ _Two, at least,”_ Bobby corrects.

Dean turns to glance at Sam again, sees the teen watching him. He considers for a split second telling Bobby but then decides that's not a conversation to have on the phone. After he drops the kids off, he'll probably head back to Sioux Falls anyway, lay low for a few weeks.

“Alright, I'll head there. Gonna get these kids some dinner and stuff first, so if you could send the message through Jody, I'll be hittin' Kalamazoo somewhere around 1 AM.”

“ _Do I look like your messenger, boy?”_ Bobby gripes.

“Can't see you over the phone, Bobby,” Dean smiles fondly, this one not an act at all. “Thanks again.”

“ _Yeah… ya idjit,”_ and the line goes dead.

Dean holds the cellphone to his forehead for a moment, just letting himself start to accept that everything's okay right now. His body is slow on the uptake, pumping adrenaline like it's going out of style. Fuckin' Sammy is here!

“Okay,” Dean says, realizes he's been saying that a lot. “So food, any requests? Something with a drive-through.”

“Can we go to McDonald's?” Tatianna asks hesitantly, like she's not sure she's allowed.

“Sounds good to me,” Dean grunts, face pressed forward against the steering wheel, tapping the exposed copper strands of wire together to get the van to start up again. “Everybody decide what you want.”

Once the van is running, Dean backs out of the alley with a steady _beep, beep, beep_ , until he can get back on the road. He's not that familiar with Detroit, but he's been driving and walking around this area all day and he knows he's spotted a McDonald's at least once. As he cruises around looking for one, he hears the kids mumbling to each other, a few of the girls trying to express the good news about their freedom to Sung-Hyun, Ren, and Anastázia. Dean can't tell how well their efforts are being received.

He finally spots some golden arches and heads for the restaurant. Part of him thinks maybe this isn't the healthiest stuff to give them but then he considers how he'd feel after being imprisoned for however long, and yeah, he'd want a burger and fries too.

“Alright,” Dean says as he nears the restaurant, “Now I can't let you out until we reach the police, but tell me what you want and I'll get it.”

“Chicken nuggets,” Someone says. “French fries,” Someone else says.

“Maybe just get a few different things?” Lucy suggests. She's nearest to the sliding door and she won't stop eying Dean. He can't tell if it's because she likes him or distrusts him.

“Yeah, you're probably right. Sit back, I'm gonna have to close this door for a minute,” Dean says, reaching back to slide the metal door closed. The movement causes him to turn and see Sam, sending electric tingles all over his body and a pang of something bittersweet in his belly.

“Requests, Sammy?”

“Vegetables. Crunchy. They have salads, right?”

Dean's eyebrows creep up his forehead because Sammy was never overly fond of veggies as a kid. But hell, if that's what he wants, Dean'll get it.

“Sure thing,” Dean nods, pulling forward into the line of cars waiting at the drive-thru, “Just keep quiet, alright?”

Sam nods, sits back in his seat.

When Dean gets up to the little intercom and rolls down his window, he's got a surreal second where he wonders how the fuck he got here—at a McDonalds drive-thru in a stolen delivery van full of stolen kids at near 10 PM on a Tuesday—but he swiftly shakes his head to concentrate again. Reality is weird as fuck; as a Winchester, he's long ago accepted that.

The voice on the intercom greets him brightly, asking if he wants to try some new special something. Dean declines. He considers briefly how hungry he is, hasn't eaten since some cheap drive-thru breakfast as 5 AM this morning, and considers how hungry the kids are. He doesn't know how much kids eat, but since Ezra's buyin' he figures it doesn't matter if he overspends. There's three kids under ten so—

“How about you give me, three cheeseburger Happy Meals, ten quarter pounders with cheese, ten medium fries, twenty-five cookies, different kinds is fine, ten apple pies, fifteen large waters, and like—what, fifty chicken nuggets? Nah, you know what,” Dean says flipping through the stack of hundreds he's had wadded up in his jacket pocket. “Make that 100 chicken nuggets. All kinds of sauces—Oh, and a big ass salad. Biggest one you've got.”

There's nothing but protracted silence from the intercom and Dean sighs with impatience, leaning his right elbow against the wheel. “You got all that, sugar?”

“ _Sir, do you think you could come inside?”_ the female voice on the intercom asks.

“No can do,” Dean says, makes up a lie, “I'm on the clock and can't leave my truck. But I'll give you a flat two hundred for the whole thing. Consider the change your tip.”

There's a brief silence again before the voice asks him to repeat his order, which he does, but asking for ten of their shake-salads this time, figuring maybe the other kids might want some veggies too. He feels a little better about getting them fast food if they're getting healthy stuff with it.

“ _Pull up to the first window,”_ the intercom says and Dean shifts back into gear to do just that. He turns when he hears Sammy sniffle and sees the teen leaning his elbow against the window, hand over his mouth and silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

Dean hits the brakes before he gets to the window.

“Sammy, you okay?”

Sam turns and looks at him, and this happy trill of laughter bursts from behind his fingers. He shakes his head but he's smiling. “I can't believe it's really you,” He whispers.

Dean swallows and tells himself to hold on a couple more hours. He'll get a chance to be alone with Sam soon enough. Just a little longer.

“Tell me about it, kiddo,” Dean replies warmly, reaching over to set his hand against his brother's shoulder. Just that short contact has more hot tears slipping over the boy's cheeks. “Just hang on for me a little longer, alright Sammy? We'll get a chance to talk, I promise.”

Sam nods, sniffs hard and breathes out wetly, getting himself under control, “I know.”

Dean has to let out his own breath as he turns back to the wheel and gets the van moving again. Somebody behind him honks and Dean flips them off through his open window. Like they can't wait another two fuckin' minutes for their Big Mac. The sound of Sam's low, melodic laughter brings a smile to Dean's face as he pulls up to the cashier's window.

A teenager in a red shirt stares him down like he's an alien and then reads back his order with an appropriate amount of skepticism.

“You guys throwing a party or something?” She asks as Dean hands her two hundred dollars.

“Somethin' like that,” Dean winks at her cheekily. “Take your time gettin' the food, just make sure it's good and hot for me, huh sugar?”

Her acne covered cheeks go pink and she nods for him, smiling coyly as she puts one of the hundreds in the register. “Just pull forward to that first parking spot over there. Someone'll bring it out to you.”

Dean does, leaves the van running. This little corner is shady enough that he thinks it's alright to slide open the cargo door a handful of inches. “Everybody still okay?”

“Yeah,” Lucy nods, he can only see half of her face through the gap, but he thinks she's smiling a little. “We're okay.”

“So hey,” Dean says, turning more to face her, “I'm gonna have you in charge back there. Can you make sure nobody eats too much, tell me if somebody needs somethin', keep the spills to a minimum?”

Yeah, she's definitely smiling, just a little. “Sure,” She nods, “Dean.”

He smiles back, then hands her his penlight, “For you guys to see back there.” She takes it gingerly from his hand, like it's fragile, using it to light up the small space as best she can.

It takes the restaurant more than fifteen minutes to make their food, but Dean can tell they're getting priority. In his side mirrors he can see the drive-thru line is starting to stretch to epic proportions. That big tip probably has something to do with it. While they wait, Dean can't help casting not-so-subtle glances at Sam every chance he gets. Sam is almost always looking back, but he doesn't say anything. Dean finds that strange considering Sam was rarely what anyone would call quiet, at least not until he was around strangers. It strikes Dean a few minutes later, after another moment of accidental eye contact with his little brother, that they sort of are strangers now. Because _what the hell_ has Sam been up to? Dean, who usually has a surprisingly inventive imagination, can't even begin to come up with explanations for how Sammy ended up at that auction. The vague possibilities hovering outside his conscious thoughts are chilling enough that Dean doesn't mull it over for long.

Three workers come out to deliver his food, one with a black shirt, the manager. As soon as Dean sees them coming, he closes the door leading to the cargo area and rolls down his window with a friendly smile as they approach. The manager's telling him what's in the bags as she hands them over, but Dean doesn't really care as long as it's all there.

They get three Happy Meal boxes, eight bags of food, and six drink carriers. Dean and Sam's laps are literally covered in McDonald's by the time they've got it all. Dean curls his lips into a heated smirk and gives the chubby mid-thirties manager an extra twenty as another tip. Her cheeks would probably be pink too if he could see them under her make up.

Once he pulls out of the parking lot and back onto the road, he has Sam passing stuff back through the door and Lucy distributing. Hannah, Tatianna, and Sareema get the happy meals, and the rest of them split burgers and nuggets and salads and fries, sipping at cold water between bites. It's still too dark to see much but whenever they pass a street lamp, Dean sees more smiles back there than he has all night.

Lucy insists they save the cookies and apple pies for last but Dean replies, “Screw that. Freedom means eating an apple pie whenever the hell you want to. And you guys are free now, so dig in. And pass me one, if you don't mind sweetheart.”

“I got it,” Sam interrupts too quickly, digging in one of the many white bags to pull out a little red, rectangular cardboard box. “Careful, it's hot.”

Dean wants to scoff and say that burns on his tongue are the least of his worries, but it's _Sammy_. All that comes out of his mouth is a soft, “Thanks,” as he takes the box and tears open one end, carefully driving with his forearms. He even blows on it first, 'cause Sam is watching him, before eating the whole thing in three bites and burning his tongue anyway.

It's still a chilly autumn night and the uninsulated cargo space can't be comfy for the kids, so Dean pulls up at the next Wal-Mart he sees. The place is closing at eleven; he doesn't have long.

He pulls into a parking space far from the entrance, not wanting any people walking by the van or taking peeks inside. The sliding door is still open so Dean shuts it half way, enough to block most prying eyes without leaving the kids in the dark. He looks over at Sam and feels a twist in his chest; he doesn't want to let his brother out of his sight, but The Job…

“Hey Lucy,” Dean says turning to look through the gap, “I'm gonna be right back. Keep everybody calm and quiet. I'm gettin' you guys some blankets.”

“Okay,” The girl nods, and from her demeanor Dean trusts that she's not taking her responsibility lightly.

Dean gives Sam a stern look and says, “You gotta stay here, with them.”

Sam stares back at him, clearly displeased but trying not to show it. He sets his shake-salad thing on the floorboard between his bare feet, eyes downcast, “You sure?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly but forces his head to nod, “Yeah, Sammy. You see anyone comin' and you close this door. Don't answer any questions, don't roll down the windows.” He pauses again, then reaches into the back of his jeans and pulls out his gun. He checks the safety out of habit then holds the barrel, offering the grip to Sam. “Still know how to use one of these?”

Sam swallows visibly, eyes on the gun for long seconds before they flick up to Dean. “My aim's probably not great but I remember the basics,” The boy mumbles, taking hold of the grip, finger off the trigger, thumb checking the safety just like Dean did.

“That's all you'll need,” Dean nods. He sits there for another few seconds, trying to convince his legs to move. “I'll be right back,” He repeats, like a promise, to them and himself.

“Hurry,” Sam says, looking right into his eyes, and that's enough to get Dean moving.

Sam locks the doors after him and Dean sets off at a brisk jog for the store. Even as he's coming in, the greeter tries to tell him they'll be closed in less than half an hour. Dean's jogging away before they finish their sentence. He snags an empty cart on his way through and heads straight for the _'Home'_ section, shoving tons of blankets into his basket. He knows these are temporary so he goes for things that look warm and cheap—a lot of soft, fuzzy throw blankets, the kind that end up over the backs of armchairs and couches—but he can't resist buying a big, fluffy comforter too.

He stops by the camping section for a lantern and a bunch of batteries, then snags a map of Michigan so he can plot out the way to Kalamazoo and heads for the checkout. The cashier is clearly tired and decidedly jaded, moving at a steady snail's pace despite how Dean bounces his knee impatiently and checks his watch about three times. When he finally gets to the front, he doesn't change pace for Dean either.

“Think you could speed it up there, uh—” Dean reads his name tag, “Jeremy?”

The kid stares at him blankly, eyes glazed like a stoner, chewing his gum open mouthed like cattle. His pace doesn't change at all and Dean scowls at him, grabbing everything as soon as it passes the cashier's hands, foregoing the plastic bags, and putting the items straight back in the cart. Then on second thought, he grabs a handful of shopping bags anyway. They'll be in the car a while and the kids in the back don't have windows, so motion sickness is a definite possibility.

Dean doesn't give the guy a tip, even takes his change, coins and all.

He's at a brisk jog again on his way out of the store, nodding his head absently as the greeter wishes him good evening and taking off through the parking lot. When he reaches the van, he checks his watch; it's been less than fifteen minutes, even with the slow ass cashier.

Dean doesn't dare open the back doors of the van in a place this public so he goes to the driver's side. Sam unlocks the door for him and Dean opens it up. “Here,” he says passing the lantern and batteries to his brother, “Can you get this lit for me, Sammy? Lucy, darlin',” Dean calls softly, “I'm gonna start passin' stuff back to you okay, one at a time.”

A pale hand sticks out from the sliding door and Dean starts with the throw blankets, all rolled into cylinders and secured with ribbon. Sam gets the lantern lit and passes it back, softly telling one of the girls they should hang it from a hook on the ceiling.

Next comes the comforter, in a plastic casing which Dean strips off and leaves in the cart; it's crowded enough back there without adding trash to the mix. The big comforter goes in a lot more slowly as the older girls try to get everybody situated with their food and blankets while keeping spills and noise to a minimum. When the last blankets are in, Dean passes the map to Sam, pushes the cart clear of the van, and gets back into the driver's seat. He's already going for the wires under the dash as he asks his brother, “Think you can find us a route to Kalamazoo?”

Sam looks a bit unsure of the task but nods his head once and starts unfolding the map, brows drawn down as he squints at it in the light.

The van starts up again and Dean pats the steering wheel, grateful that this thing has been so reliable. “Alright everybody, ready to get the fuck outta Detroit?”

A chorus of vague but positive responses come from the back and Dean still smiles. Their mouths are full and their bodies warm, and he honestly couldn't expect a more articulate reply.

“Looks like…” Sam says, running his finger along the colored lines of the map, “The I-94 west should take us straight there.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, foot on the gas.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I know some readers were looking for the full on dramatic Winchester rediscovery thing, with hugs and manly tears--and we'll get to that--but now isn't really the opportune moment for that and both of the boys know it. The next update will have a lot more Sam and Dean and we'll see how they've both changed.
> 
> Leave a kudo if you want to see more?  
> Leave a comment to tell me what you think so far?  
> Is this story going the direction you thought it would?
> 
> See you in the next update :]


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Eluna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eluna/pseuds/eluna), my new beta-reader.

 

The clock on the dash reads ten past midnight as Dean finishes his second, cold McDonald's cheeseburger. He crumples the paper as quietly as possible, throwing it into one of the empty bags on the floorboard. He rubs at his tired eyes and shakes off the fatigue as best he can, repositioning in his seat to keep himself awake. He can't even play music because all the kids in the back are sleeping soundly.

Truthfully, the journey isn't half as bad as it could be. Once they're on I-94, it's basically smooth sailing. He's alert and watchful for any cops or suspicious vehicles, but it's late enough that there aren't many drivers on the road. One of the kids did get motion sick only a few minutes after they hit the highway, and those flower pots actually came in handy. Dean had to stop and leave the plastic bucket on the side of the road to get the smell out of the van. But the kids are full and warm so they're all knocked out long before the halfway point. Sam is leaning against his window—the red throw blanket Dean insisted on wrapping around his shoulders slightly askew—eyes heavily lidded and slipping closed for long stretches of minutes.

“You should get some rest, Sammy,” Dean finally says when he notices Sam’s eyes flicking open again.

His brother—his  _ brother,  _ fuck, he can still hardly believe it—just sighs and blinks blearily out the windshield. “'M not gonna let you stay awake by yourself.”

Dean's not really sure where to begin parsing that sentence. His mouth twists in displeasure, not liking to see Sammy so worn down. “I want you to sleep, Sam,” Dean coaxes. “You need the rest.”

Sam shifts in his seat so he's turned to face Dean, back against the door.

“How long have you been awake, Dean?”

Dean frowns and fixes his eyes on the road. The answer is nearing 40 hours. All those aches and pains from digging that vengeful spirit's grave are coming back now that he's got nothing else to concentrate on, and his body is protesting the shitty food he's been shoving in it. Oh, and it's been way too long since he's had a cup of coffee—but Dean's not saying any of that.

“That's what I thought,” Sam breathes out, face serene in the shadows of the darkened cab. He looks different— _ of course _ he does—but the traces of the the little brother he lost are unmistakeable. His jaw is wider, and his big doe eyes have narrowed. The chubby cheeks of Dean's memory have disappeared, leaving Sam with a much sharper look, cheekbones set higher and brow heavier than before. But his nose and hair and moles are all the same,  _ especially _ the hair.

It's quiet for a little while after that, van filled with nothing but the hum of tires on asphalt and soft snores. The sky is dark, besides a few pinpricks of the brightest stars. The moon is probably hanging behind them somewhere, because Dean can't see it.

“I guess I'm kinda scared,” Sam whispers and Dean looks over at him. He has this joyless little smile on his lips that widens, shy and maybe even apologetic, when their eyes meet. “I can't believe this is really happening. I keep thinking I'll wake up any minute.”

Dean nods slowly, eyes back on the road. “So you don't wanna sleep.” It's not a question.

Sam nods back, hair hanging too long across his forehead, shielding his eyes. It's quiet for another long stretch of road, Dean's mind spinning with thoughts. What's he gonna tell Dad? What are they gonna do with Sam back from wherever he's been?  _ What happened to him? _ God, Dean really doesn't want the answer to that last question, but at the same time he needs to know so badly that the words are burning at the base of his tongue.  _ What'd they do to you? _

“Tell me something,” Sam requests softly, cutting off Dean's thoughts before he can build up the courage to ask. “A story,” Sam clarifies. “Something only you could know.”

Dean glances over but mostly keeps his eyes aimed out the windshield. He sighs heavily and scrapes a hand through his stubble, thicker than he prefers to keep it now, been a few days since he could shave. His mouth twists in thought before he settles on a memory, something that Sam should remember too.

“We went to Pastor Jim's for Christmas, and you loved it, little nerd that you were. Loved being quiet and drawing pictures in the sanctuary while the organist practiced—badly, no offense. I didn't think we were gonna get any presents that year, but Dad and Pastor Jim got us that big box of Legos, and we spent basically all of Christmas vacation building shit. Man, I had this awesome Lego gun, you remember?”

Dean glances over and Sam has a subtle smile curling his mouth, staring intently, captivated. He nods once, looks like he's settling in for a good story, so Dean keeps talking.

“It was great to finally have a toy we couldn't really get bored of, especially since—well, I think Dad was taking care of some kind of shapeshifter a town over. We spent a lot of time alone in the church, couldn't go outside 'cause of the snow. Even though we snuck out that one time, for all of twenty minutes before your little fingers started turning blue—had to drag you back in by your hair—”

“You dragged me by my  _ jacket _ ,” Sam interrupts, and something in Dean's chest loosens. The kid's been too quiet, won't talk over Dean, barely says a word really. Before, Sam was always eagerly argumentative, would talk about anything at the drop of a hat, always had so goddamn much to say.

“Same difference,” Dean shrugs, maintaining his blasé demeanor, but he can't help shooting a lightning-quick grin over at Sam. The kid is just staring at him, but his smile has gone crooked,  _ fond _ .

“Anyway,” Dean breathes, turning back to the road, his palm thudding against the wheel as he sets his hands back at 10 and 2, effortlessly changing lanes to get around a slow-ass Ford Escort. “We had Legos, man, and it was awesome. Kept you busy for hours, and you always made these weird modern art sculptures and told me it was a 'train' or a 'dog.' Had me in stitches a couple times, your serious, chubby little face.

“And then, after we got back on the road they started gettin' lost, started finding 'em in weird places, and Dad was getting annoyed with the whole thing. I kept tryin'a clean 'em up, but you'd lose 'em faster than I could find 'em all. I actually learned a new cuss word when Dad stepped on one.”

Dean's eyes have glazed slightly, lost in the memory of the winter he turned nine years old: Sammy not even five yet but full of energy and curiosity, his Dad still sober most nights back then, and the world just a little bit rose-colored in his mind.

“Then of course, the last straw was when we got in huge trouble for sticking Legos into the Impala's heater vents,” Dean speaks lowly, voice dry and rough, doesn't mention how they'd been left in the car for hours in the middle of nowhere. “Dad tore up both our hides, made us do extra chores for a whole week, and got rid of all the Legos. But then two years later—remember the heater crapped out altogether. Dad had to replace it, had me helpin' 'im, mostly just watchin' him do it, passin' him tools.

“When he started it up to test it, there was still the rattle of the Legos, and I gave him this confused look. But he just smiled at me and said,  _ 'See? Good as new,' _ ruffled my hair… Hell, they're still in there,” Dean finishes with a tiny grin, caught up in a time long past, before his brother disappeared.

Sam's smiling a little too. “Still?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods his head. “She's mine now, Sammy. Dad gave me the Impala.”

Sam's face goes pale, smile dropping to nothing, “Dad. He's okay, right?”

“What?” Dean asks, then thinks about how that must sound to Sam. “Yeah!” Dean reassures blithely. “He just bought a truck. He's perfectly fine, Sammy. At least, last I heard of him.”

Sam lets out his held breath but then his brow creases, “Wait, last you heard? What does that mean?”

“We, uh…” Dean starts, not really sure how to explain. Not sure he wants Sam to know just how much everything fell apart when they lost him. “We work different jobs sometimes. He likes to go off by himself a lot more these days.”

Sam takes that in with a slow nod, brow still creased. There's another protracted pause before Sam finally speaks again. “And you still hunt,” the teen says, tone laced with skepticism. “By yourself.”

Dean looks over, head turning back and forth to keep an eye on Sammy and the road, a little insulted at the lack of faith. “I'm twenty-three, dude,” he points out. Sam’s eyebrows disappear into his fringe, but the corners of his mouth curl upwards. He turns towards his window to hide his smile, but Dean can see it in the reflection of the glass anyway.

“Yeah. You're… you're a grown-up now,” Sam mumbles and the words send a pang of something bright and agonizing through Dean's chest, hands clenching on the wheel. Four fucking years. Hell, Sam's a grown-up too, and that  _ hurts _ .

“Only when I have to be,” Dean counters, trying to cover with humor. A little longer, just make it to this sheriff lady and back to the Impala, and then he can break down, let all his precariously stacked pieces shatter to the floor.

“Did you…” Sam starts, expression a mixture of sorrow and discomfort, maybe embarrassment. Dean looks over when the teen doesn't immediately continue. Sam sighs, reluctantly finishes, “Did you know I was there?”

Dean wonders briefly at the complexity of emotion in Sammy's expression. “No,” he answers belatedly, “no, I just… It's a long story, like I said.”

Sam glances at the clock on the dash, “Looks like we've got another half hour or so.”

Dean sighs again, not really wanting to get into this right now, but then, they're going to have this conversation eventually anyway. He needs to keep himself awake and this will do it just as well as music blasting from the speakers. He sits back in his seat, shifting to steer with one hand, the other resting on his thigh as he thinks. He tries to find a place to start.

“I ran into a demon,” Dean finally admits. “An incubus.”

Sam just stares at him, a clear opening for Dean to continue.

“He, uh… He was hitting on me. But I could tell he wasn't human, so I let him. Followed him back to his hotel room and exorcised the bastard,” he explains.

Sam's forehead is now heavily furrowed with the weight of all the questions he very clearly has. But the boy keeps quiet, and Dean keeps talking.

“There was this…” Dean pauses, can't get the image of her pale face and empty eyes out of his head, can't forget the way the shroud fell over her, the little peak of her nose beneath the pure white fabric. Dean clears his throat harshly and puts his gaze directly on the road ahead, “There was this girl. A teenager. He'd been… the incubus was feeding on her.” He doesn't dare look over at Sam. “She didn't make it,” Dean finishes in a hush.

In his periphery, Dean can see Sammy lowering his eyes and turning his head away for a moment, frowning out at the highway. “Then what happened?” Sam prompts.

Dean sucks in a deep breath, shaking off the sorrow. “So then, I went through the demon's stuff. Tryin'a figure out where he was headed, what he was doin', any info on the girl.” He manages it in a level voice, like he's just recalling the weather. “Found a ticket into the auction, couple'a emails explainin' things. So I—” There's a split second pause before Dean decides to skip over his encounter with Dimitri. “I pretended to be him. Went to the auction with his ticket, his bank account—bought up as many as I could without anyone gettin' suspicious. I was actually right about to leave when…”

Dean finally risks a glance over at his little brother. Sam is watching him, big, somber eyes filled to the brim with compassion. “If I'd left ten seconds earlier, if I hadn't stayed to see what the  _ 'special collection' _ was—” Dean realizes as soon as the words are out of his mouth how insensitive it is to refer to the category titles, but luckily Sam looks untroubled. Still, Dean can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

Sam nods his head and looks down at his knees. Their conversation is stilted, long pauses too often, too awkward. Dean grits his teeth and presses his foot down on the accelerator, wants to get Sam alone, someplace safe. He wants to sit him down and look in his eyes while they talk,  _ if _ they talk. Honestly, Dean'd be happy if he just got to hug Sammy to death and never let go, no words necessary.

“Well, I'm glad you did,” is what Sam finally says in reply, voice almost reverent, if still slightly subdued, as though he's not sure how much to say. It takes him another half minute before he adds, “Thought I'd never see you again. Missed you.”

A completely involuntary sound of distress comes from Dean's tight throat and he grits his teeth harder, enough to crack a molar or two. He nods at the darkened highway and refuses to cry. So instead he smiles, and he must really be happy because it feels good on his face, helps to ease the pressure of tears behind his eyes. “Yeah, Sammy. Missed you too, kiddo.”

The boy lets out a real grin then, dimples and everything and settles back into his seat like he's accomplished something. “Should be reaching Kalamazoo pretty soon. What're you gonna do after?”

Dean can't whip his head around fast enough, the road suddenly holding no interest for him whatsoever.  _ “We _ ,” he emphasizes, “ _ we _ are going to find a place to settle down and get some sleep, get you a whole meal, and then—I dunno. I was thinkin' of going to Sioux Falls, layin' low for a bit so we don't get caught.”

“You mean Bobby's house?” Sam asks, sounding a little nervous again. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“You don't wanna go?” Dean asks, baffled. Sam always loved Bobby's house. He'd beg to stay when Dad came to pick them up to travel to the next town, would get sulky for days after being forced to uproot and demolish what little stability they'd managed.

Sam sighs forcefully through his nose. “It's not that, just… I guess it's weird to think of seeing him again, of seeing  _ everyone _ . I just…”

“Hey,” Dean says, only glancing out the windshield long enough to keep them from crashing, most of him focused on his brother. “We don't have to go anywhere or do anything you don't want to.” Dean's firm assurances make Sam turn to look at him again, another strange, complex smile on his lips, eyes far too heavy for a boy— _ young man _ —his age. “I mean it,” Dean reinforces. “Staying in Michigan probably isn't the greatest idea, but I swear to Christ, Sam, if that's what you want—”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts. “It's fine. We can go to Sioux Falls.” His voice is almost amused but holds no undue tension or obvious signs of dishonesty. “It's just weird after so long, not  _ bad _ , just…”

“Weird?” Dean finishes and Sam chuckles, nods.

“Well… you can have as much time as you need, Sammy. You can have anything you need,  _ want,” _ Dean says, aware he's likely promising the impossible but resolved to fulfill it with every ounce of will and strength in his body. He'll die before seeing Sam want for anything.

There's another long pause, this one more contemplative than awkward, before Sam replies, “Thank you.”

 

Xx--xX

 

When they arrive in Kalamazoo, Dean goes straight for the county sheriff's office.

It isn't more than five minutes off the I-94, a long two-story tan building with many darkened windows. The street outside is quiet and at first, Dean worries that maybe no one will be there to help them. But as he pulls around the left side of the building through the barren parking lot, he finds three other cars parked in the spaces closest to the doors and he can see some lights on. Sheriff Mills' friend must've come through for them after all.

Dean parks the van as near to the entrance as he can, hauling open the cargo door and getting some of the kids to stir.

“Hey, guys,” he says when the van is safely idled, “rise and shine. We're here.”

Sam looks at the building curiously, but Dean can't be sure if he's actively taking in details or just keeping his eyes busy. Lucy, for all that she'd been helpful before, is surprisingly hard to wake. Elliot, the boy sleeping just beside her, curled into the teenage girl's side on the makeshift bench, wakes fastest, popping up quick with his hands balled into fists like he's ready to fight.

Of all the kids in the back, Elliot is the one that makes Dean the most uncomfortable. At the time he'd bought him—and yeah, it still sounds fucked up in his head—Dean had been thinking about the little brother he'd lost, had seen Elliot with his shaggy hair and reserved demeanor and wanted to save him, the way he hadn't been able to save Sam. Now seeing the boy, seeing how jumpy and vulnerable he is, only adds fuel to the fire of all his worst nightmares about what Sammy went through when he first went missing.

Elliot quickly looks away when he notices Dean's attention, glancing first down at the ground before reluctantly looking back up at Sam. His eyes, which he's hidden from Dean this whole time, are actually blue and green, wide and trusting when he looks to Sam for guidance.

“Are we here?” the boy asks, and Sam nods, turning more in his seat.

“Yeah, Eli,” Sammy replies, his voice going genial and reassuring in a way it hasn't been all night. An act, but a kind one. “Think you could start waking everybody up?”

The boy's eyes flick between Sam and Dean one more time before he nods with a sigh of surrender, letting his guard drop a little further. “Sure, Caleb,” the boy replies and Dean almost flinches.

It's unsettling to hear his brother called by another name.

Sam offers the other boy a tiny smile before turning back to Dean. When he takes in his brother's expression, Sam frowns in question, silently asking if something's wrong. Dean shakes his head and reaches under the steering to untwist the wires again, cutting the engine.

Elliot—or _Eli_ , Dean internally corrects—is shaking the girls awake one at a time, starting with Lucy, who groans and pushes his hands away but still blinks her bleary gray eyes open. Dean unlocks his door and hops out of the van, only pausing when he hears Sam start to do the same.

“No, Sammy,” Dean orders, and the teen looks confused. “You gotta stay here with them for a minute. I'm gonna go inside and make sure it's the right people, okay?”

Sam is not so easily swayed this time, making an irritated sound and letting his lips curl into a deeper frown. “Are you serious?” he asks roughly.

“It'll only be a few minutes,” Dean insists, not entirely sure why this is a big deal but getting the nagging sense that it is.

Sam doesn't smile, purses his lips almost like he had back when he was a surly preteen, when all he'd ever had to be pissed about was an annoying big brother and a strict father. Sam nods dutifully and looks away. Dean hesitates for a second, wondering if he should say more, but he's grateful for Sam's patience and doesn't push his luck. He closes the van door and quickly jogs up to the sheriff's office entrance.

The lights are on, so he can see clearly inside as he approaches the glass double doors. There's someone in uniform at the front desk. Dean walks in and the man looks right at him, eyes calculating and cautious. White, early thirties, grim expression, not a rookie, pale skin, dark brown hair, somewhat neat, short beard not overly groomed—an average man.

“You Winchester?” he asks, and Dean bristles at the curtness of his tone. He decides not to answer.

“I'm looking for Sheriff Donna Hanscum,” Dean replies. He sees the protest building on the officer's face and quickly adds, “She's the only one I'm talking to.”

“Dean?” He hears a female voice say from his right. He turns to see a cute older blonde in uniform, hair pulled into a respectable twist at the back of her head, minimal make up, wide blue eyes, calm and welcoming.

“Sheriff Hanscum?” Dean asks, just to confirm.

She grins at him, 1000-watts, and swiftly steps forward to offer out a hand. “At your service,” she says, and he notices her Minnesota accent immediately. “Jody told me all about you. A good friend of hers.”

Dean's mouth quirks at one side as he tries to imagine Sheriff Mills talking him up. Most of their interactions consisted of Dean's teenage recklessness, getting tossed into holding overnight until Bobby or Dad could pick him up. Sheriff Mills' attempts to make him go to therapy and leave his  _ 'abnormal and abusive' _ home life had been met with Dean's contempt and smart-alecky stubbornness. They weren't on what anyone would call good terms, until that crazy wraith started sucking out people's brains and the sheriff stumbled upon the supernatural monsters of the world. Since then, she's at least stopped treating Bobby like the worthless town drunk; in fact, the two of them have become something like friends.

But Sheriff Mills is more than a little disapproving of the crime-laden Winchester lifestyle, and while they're certainly not enemies, Dean doesn't think he'd call them friends either. He's been slammed into the hood of her car just a smidge too often for bygones to be bygones.

She probably had to lie through her teeth to vouch for him.

“Yeah, that's me,” Dean confirms with a smile, taking Sheriff Hanscum's hand for a firm shake. “She tell you anything about the situation?”

“Not much,” the Sheriff replies, with a brief shake of her head. “Only that there were some witnesses that needed to be protected.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, glances out the doors behind him to the van parked outside, can see the faint outline of Sam through the passenger side window. “Can I trust everyone in your office?”

“Absolutely,” the woman vows with another bright smile. “I've only called in my best, had to wake 'em in the middle of the night to get them here. That's Lonnie, my deputy, if you haven't met him.” She points to the guy at the front desk. “And two more, Elaine and Carter, in the back getting some of the holding rooms comfy.”

Dean glances back at Deputy Lonnie, the guy's annoyance now easily identified as sleep deprivation upon closer inspection. Three coffee cups on the desk, dark circles under his eyes, skin more sallow than naturally pale.

“Alright,” he says, ready to trust them on Bobby and Sheriff Mills' recommendation. “Well, there's no easy way to put this, Sheriff—” Dean starts, but she cuts him off.

“Please, kid. Donna is fine.” She smiles at him, and Dean's maybe starting to see what Sheriff Mills meant about this lady being weird. She's also really young for the job, and a woman, so it seems strange that she wouldn't try to present herself as an authority.

“Right, well I've got t—eleven kids outside in that van, rescued from some kind of human trafficking ring in Detroit. I needed to be sure I got them some place safe and…” he tries to think of a diplomatic word, “unbiased.”

Despite her sunny demeanor, Donna's eyes shine with competence, and she immediately understands his meaning. “There's no chance of bias here,” she assures him.

“Then I'll bring them in,” Dean replies, turning to go back outside.

“I'm coming with you,” the sheriff announces, tone reading more confidence than presumption. The remaining niggle of doubt in the woman's capabilities fades away.

Outside, Dean goes to the back of the step van and knocks. Sam saw them approaching, so there's no pause before they hear the lock sliding, and Lucy swings the doors open wide. The kids look subdued and sleepy, but awake at least, rubbing their sleepy eyes and squinting in the powerful shine of Donna's flashlight. They're a ragtag bunch, reminding Dean of the orphans in movies like  _ Oliver Twist _ or  _ Annie _ , clothes rumpled and eyes apprehensive, the special brand of hyper-vigilant wariness that abuse brings out best. These kids are too accustomed to fear to let it go after some Mickey Dee's and a car ride.

“Hello there!” Donna greets warmly, Minnesota accent thickening so much that she sounds less like an authority figure and more like a welcoming neighbor. “I'm Sheriff Donna Hanscum with the Kalamazoo sheriff's office. And don't y'all worry; you're  _ perfectly safe,”  _ she emphasizes. “Now let's get you munchkins out of the cold, eh?”

The children seem hesitant to obey the orders of a stranger so Dean forces his own mouth to smile, his cheeks sore from the repetition of such an unfamiliar expression. He adds, “Come on, kids. Up and at 'em.”

The children begin climbing out, stepping lightly over piled blankets and crumpled fast food wrappers. He and Donna help them out of the step van, hands supporting skinny elbows and shoulders, setting the barefoot girls down on the cold asphalt carefully. The smallest ones Dean just lifts by the armpits, as that's easier than asking them to jump down. When they're all out, Dean closing up the back doors, Donna is leading the children towards the sheriff's office. She stops when she hears the passenger door opening, smile dropping so quickly it's like it was never there.

Donna's got little Hannah balanced on one hip, but still manages to appear commanding, back straightening to an impressive height for a woman. She points the beam of her flashlight right into Sam's face, making him flinch and lift a hand to shield his eyes.

“Care to identify yourself there, stranger?” she asks in a far less friendly tone.

“Sam,” Dean interjects, before the teen can say a word. “This is Sam—my little brother.”

Donna's head tips back in consideration as he eyes flick between their faces. “That so?” she asks. “You wanna confirm that for me, Sam?”

Sam’s bare toes clench against the tar black asphalt, his posture slumped and defensive as he sizes up the sheriff through the blinding white glare of her light, pupils dilated to pinpricks. He looks to Dean first, then nods in answer to her question. “Yeah. I'm Sam Winchester.”

“Uh-huh,” the blonde woman drawls slowly. But rather than demand answers, she pastes on that friendly smile again, disarming and seemingly conciliatory. “Okie dokie, then. Why don't we discuss this inside where it's warm, hm?”

She leads the way back inside, and Dean shakes his head, knowing it's going to be tougher than he anticipated to take Sam with him when he leaves. His brother approaches him, walking straight to Dean, eyes not even tempted by the inviting light and safety of the sheriff's office.

“Everything okay?” Sammy asks.

Dean exhales through his nose, refusing to let his brother see his worries. He rests a hand on Sammy's shoulder and nods, forcing another brief smile. “Yeah, Sam. It's alright. Come on.”

Inside the front office again, it's more than a little crowded by all the kids, standing awkwardly and fidgeting as they look around. Dean is again struck by the surreality of the whole thing, the kids looking somehow different in such a banal setting; it's hard to believe that just a few hours ago he first saw them standing naked on stage in a crowded room. Deputy Lonnie is up on his feet now, curiosity and suspicion clear on his face: he likely heard what Dean told Donna before, but this still has to be a shock.

Donna is ordering the man to take the girls back to the holding rooms, grouping them up so they can be interviewed by her staff. Hannah's little blonde head rests against the Sheriff's shoulder, the girl sucking her thumb languidly as she gazes around the dull room. Donna seems entirely unfazed, doing her job with the same upbeat attitude and diligence, leading the way to the holding rooms.

The deputy speaks softly to the nearest girl, Shondra, asking her name as they walk down the hall. Dean huffs a brief sigh before following after the group, one hand on Sammy's shoulder to guide him forward as well.

The holding rooms are exactly what Dean'd expect of a moderately sized sheriff's office, about the size of a large closet with narrow tables and chairs, no windows or decoration, stark fluorescent lighting and a single blinking camera mounted to a corner in each room. He finally spots Donna's other two officers, Elaine a slightly chubby middle-aged woman and Carter a surprisingly young and gangly kid, his uniform hanging off of him. They each seem surprised at the crowd but don't comment, following Donna's instruction and splitting the kids up into two groups of four and one group of three, utilizing three of the four holding rooms.

“And you two,” Donna nods to Dean and Sam as she passes Hannah to Officer Elaine. “I'd like to speak to you first. Step right on in here, please.” She motions to the last holding room.

Dean stands rooted in place and Sam follows his lead. Donna's eyes narrow.

“Look,” Dean sighs, “sheriff—”

_“Donna.”_

“Donna,” Dean capitulates. “This is already way more than I prefer to get involved. I trust you on account of Sheriff Mills, but I'd really rather not have my name on record for any of this. If you catch my drift.”

Her mouth purses, but she doesn't exude threat, more like a peeved aunt or something. “Kid, I've been around the block more than a few times. Looks like maybe you have too. Now, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you this whole story stinks, and I'd like to get to the bottom of it.”

“Hey, I'm right there with you,” Dean agrees, trying hard to match her level of friendliness, hoping whatever Sheriff Mills said is enough for Donna to trust him. “But me and Sam don't know anything about the whole operation. Stumbled across it by accident and got outta there as soon as we could.”

Dean can see she's still not going for it, tries a different angle. He lowers his voice and leans forward, curls his brow and bites his lip in a mask of worry. “We saw some dangerous types there, and they might have seen us. Now normally, I wouldn’t be all that worried, but with my little brother? ... I just want to get us both back home.”

Donna's head tips to the side as she examines him, eyes still narrowed like she's squinting at a particularly difficult crossword. She looks over at Sam after, and Dean reflexively turns his head to look too. He knows the instant he does that he's not gonna be able to talk his way out of this. To his credit, it's clear that Sam's trying to play along with the con, using his still ridiculously effective puppy eyes and hunching his shoulders to look shorter. But Sammy isn't Dean's  _ little _ brother anymore; he's tall and strong and he's got the face of someone who's seen things they can't forget. There's no hiding that.

Donna's eyes flick down once to Sam's bare feet—goddamnit, Dean was in a Wal-Mart and didn't think to get shoes—and he knows they're 100% fucked.

Donna smiles tightly as she looks back to Dean, “I'm gonna say this once, Mr. Winchester. You can walk into this room voluntarily, or you can do it in cuffs, but you're not leaving until we've discussed your story. In detail.”

Dean licks his lips, a sarcastic imitation of a smile overtaking his earnest act. “Sure thing, Sheriff.”

She doesn't tell him to call her Donna again. This is not going to go well.

Dean motions for Sam to follow him and steps into the holding room. This isn't the first time Dean's been in one of these, and he knows how hard it is to get out once they've closed the door behind you. Donna doesn't lock it, but her hand rests on her pistol.

The room itself is small and plain, no wall decorations, no fancy light fixtures, rough industrial carpeting, like a cheap cubicle or something. There is only one small vent, directly above the door so the room is already warm despite the cool autumn weather outside. Within minutes, their combined body heat and breath will thicken the air and heat the room to near stifling.

There are enough chairs for them all to sit, Sam and Dean on one side of the narrow particle board table and Sheriff Donna on the other. She picks up the clipboard and pen already set out for her and starts writing on the forms, probably filling in their names, the date, the usual stuff. Dean's readying himself for a couple hours of lying and subterfuge, trying not to think about how little sleep he's had and how that always makes it harder to remember his own bullshit.

Donna is unhurried about filling out the paperwork, happy to let them stew for a few minutes, ratchet up their anxiety, a classic interrogation move that Dean rolls his eyes at.

Sam's knee bumps into Dean's purposefully beneath the table. He looks over and sees Sam looking back; his slanted eyes have become frigid and detached, irises the color of old rusted iron, flat and hard but determined. Dean has no fucking clue what that look means, and it hangs there between them, incomplete.

Donna's eyes are still on the clipboard in front of her, even as she begins speaking. “So Winchester boys, hm? Sheriff Mills gave me the impression you were an only child, Dean. You wanna clarify how you two know each other?”

Dean struggles to pull his gaze away from his brother's, barely managing it as he starts to answer, “We really are brothers. I can't imagine why Sheriff Mills would say different.”

Sam tips his head slightly towards Donna or maybe the door, knee bumps Dean again, harder. What the fuck is he trying to say? There was a time when Dean could read Sam as well as any book, or better probably, but now his body language may as well be Chinese. All Dean can guess is that Sammy thinks they should keep quiet, but pleading the fifth here isn't going to get them anything except stuck in Kalamazoo.

“Well, if that's true, I'm sure she'll clear it all up the next time we talk. But alright—brothers, then. Now what exactly were you doing in Detroit?”

“Road-tripping,” Dean answers on automatic, ignoring Sam's third knee bump, hard enough to visibly jostle him in his chair. Donna's stare narrows. “Yeah, we like to travel around. See the sights while we're young and all that.” Dean keeps talking, putting on a shit-eating grin and cavalier attitude to distract the sheriff from Sam. It works. “That's not illegal, is it?”

The unamused withering look Donna levels him is enough to burst whatever meager balloon of hope he had that they were getting out of this place before sunrise.

Sam doesn't knee bump him again, and when Dean looks over the teen has his head bowed, long hair covering most of his expression. Dean's close enough to see his mouth tighten and twist in thought a few times, but doesn't know what it means; he figures he won't interrupt whatever the hell is going on in Sammy's head.

“Well, where are you boys from originally? You must have a home somewhere, parents who can verify your story,” Sheriff Donna challenges, clearly thinking every line Dean says is bullshit, just waiting to catch him in an incriminating lie.

“Sheriff,” Sam whispers softly, voice almost trembling. Dean's stomach drops to his ankles and he turns to watch his brother, not sure what's wrong or how to fix it. Before he can say a word, Sam continues, “We're not brothers.”

“What?” Dean bursts before he can stop himself.

“He… he made me,” Sam starts with high-pitched little gasps, leaning away from Dean like he's afraid, like he'd do anything to put more space between them. “I just wanna go home,” Sam finishes in this broken little voice, dropping his face into his hands. His shoulders are shaking and faint, muffled noises of distress escape from between his palms.

“Sammy, what the hell—” Dean starts, a hand reaching out to comfort the kid.

Sheriff Donna barks,  _ “Drop it,” _ harshly enough to make Dean freeze but it wouldn't matter anyway because Sam scrambles away from his touch.

The teen stumbles over his own lanky limbs, falling out of his chair and straight onto his ass, mumbling words like _'no'_ and _'please don't'_ and _'not again.'_ He's literally cowering, head still bowed low to hide his face behind thick chestnut bangs.

“Alright,” Sheriff Donna says decisively, standing up quickly and marching forward, “I've heard enough. We're going to have to separate you for this interview, so Dean, I'm going to have to place you in custody for—”

“You're gonna fuckin' _arrest_ me? For what?” Dean demands angrily, voice raised. He feels backed into a corner, feels like he was set-up, or maybe just walked into the Twilight Zone, and _what the fuck is Sam doing?_ Is it even _Sam?_

No, fuck that! It's gotta be Sam. The real Sam.

“Sammy, it's alright, just—”

“Don't talk to him,” Donna orders, stepping between them, standing in front of a huddled, shaking Sam like she's his last defense. Like  _ Dean's _ the monster. “Unfortunately all of our holding rooms are filled, so you're going into a cell, Mr. Winchester.  _ By force _ , if necessary.”

“The hell I am,” Dean replies darkly, like he's gonna let some chubby lady-cop come between him and his brother.

“Please take him away,” Sam pipes up from the ground, literally sobbing the words out, wet and snotty. He's curled up in the corner, as far away from Dean as he could get, knees pulled up to his chest. _“Please.”_

“Sam, God, what did I—”

“Are you resisting?” Donna asks.

“What? No, I—”

“Stand up and put your hands behind your back, Mr. Winchester.”

“Sam, I'm s—”

_“Up!”_ Donna commands, grabbing hold of Dean's shoulder and manhandling him up out of his chair. He knows better than to fight her, but the bitch slams him into the table anyway, his cheek and forehead stinging from the impact. Chubby or not, she's a lot stronger than she looks. 

_“Bitch,”_ Dean spits, and totally means it. So much for the friendly neighbor act. 

He hears the jingle of handcuffs and Donna starts saying, “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held—” That's as far as she gets before she cuts off with a gasp and the swift, rattling latch of the handcuffs.

But not around Dean's wrists.

The pressure holding Dean down to the table is instantly gone. He doesn't quite stand up, wary of earning a count for resisting arrest, but Dean turns his head enough to see what the hell is going on behind him.

Sam is up off the ground, and Donna's wrists are in her handcuffs. Her hands are still in front of her but she doesn't make so much as a twitch to move for her keys. Because Sam's got her gun, and it’s aimed right at her goddamn face.

“Shit.” The word wheezes out between Dean's lips as he turns around fully, terrified at the picture his brother makes. His body lean and sharp like a knife, his expression full of the kind of seething anger Dean didn't know his little brother could feel, the gun held in his steady hands, finger on the trigger. Dean feels a rush of vertigo, unable to recognize the figure in front of him.

“My name is Sam Winchester, _Donna,”_ the teen spits out, his face still flushed and crocodile tears falling away from his cheeks, but his voice is menacing. “That _is_ my brother. And we just brought you the biggest goddamn bust of your fucking career. So we're gonna walk outta here, and you're not gonna follow us.”

For a moment, the room is suspended in silence; Dean barely has the presence of mind to breathe and Donna’s blue eyes are so wide it looks like they might just pop right out of her head. Timidly, she lifts her cuffed hands, palms out towards Sam in the universal sign of surrender.

“Okay,” the word slips out on a high pitched, shivery breath. “Okay, Sam. Let’s talk about this—no one’s going to make you do anything you don—”

_“Shut. Up.”_ Sam enunciates deliberately, his voice like a restrained storm, quiet but no less compelling. 

Donna’s mouth snaps shut with a nearly inaudible squeak.

Sam backs away from the sheriff slowly, back towards Dean, but he keeps the gun aimed. “If you start feelin' like you wanna come after us anyway, remember that I could've killed you,” Sam finishes, his voice slowly coming back down to its usual pitch.

Wordlessly, Sam expels the magazine from the Glock and pulls the slide with expert familiarity, the round in the chamber clattering to the floor. He offers the unloaded gun back to Donna. Her eyes are wet and wide as saucers, chest heaving, face pale. She lifts her handcuffed hands and gingerly takes the gun back, like she's afraid any moment that Sam will change his mind and kill her.

As soon as she does, Sam just nods and walks to the door. He jerks his chin for Dean to follow along, and yeah, okay—he'll deal with that fuckin' mess in a second. But at the moment, Dean's concentrated on Donna. The friendly Sheriff looks shaken down to her soul.

Dean puts his hands up and tries to look as harmless as he possibly can. “I'm sorry,” he says, “for that. We're not the bad guys, Sheriff Hanscum. But we've got places to be.”

She stares at him blankly and Dean can't tell if his apology reached her, or if they'll be making a run for it with a hail of gunfire behind them.

They leave her there in the holding room, Sam grabbing Dean's arm and setting off through the empty beige halls at a brisk run. Bursting through the double doors, away from the fluorescent lights and out into the fresh air and darkness, tastes like freedom, and Dean almost laughs. For a second, it felt like he might not ever get out of there. But he can't laugh—Dean looks over at the indecipherable young man wearing his brother’s skin—not when it feels like his whole world just started spinning in reverse.

Sam's got a roguish little grin on his face too, outside of that cramped hotbox of an interview room. He throws the Glock magazine as hard as a baseball, and though they can't see it land, they both hear it skidding on the blacktop before coming to a stop more than twenty yards away.

“Let's hit the road before she gets her head screwed back on straight,” Sam says, already going for the delivery van and opening up the door on the passenger side.

Dean has so many questions, but Sam's right: they really shouldn't linger. He sighs and heads over, getting into the driver's seat and starting in on the wires beneath the dash. This would be the perfect time for fate to fuck them over, but luckily the step van remains reliable, starting up with a cough and rumble. Dean's foot hits the gas as hard as he can, speeding out of the parking lot like the devil is on their tail. He's gotta get them back to Detroit for the Impala, but then they're getting out of Michigan, hopefully for at least a decade.

“So what the  _ fuck _ was that?” Dean spits as soon as he's on a road straight enough that he can risk looking over.

“What?” Sam asks, eyebrows up like he's really confused. “Oh, the acting thing?”

“The acti— _ Sam!” _

“What?” the teen repeats defensively. “We weren't gonna get out of there for hours, and we need to get out of Michigan—”

“So you pull a _gun_ on the goddamn sheriff?” Dean blusters, impassioned and vexed, nearing the end of his fraying rope from all the stress.

“I tried to signal you! Since when are you so bad at understanding _'we need to get the fuck out of here?'”_

“Since when do you even talk like this?” Dean retorts, voice raised and heated, but inside he feels like a bowl of quivering Jell-O he's so damn terrified.

“Since I'm not fifteen anymore,” Sam snaps, rough and too loud. The silence that follows seems to echo in the empty van.

Dean swallows thickly but doesn't know what to say, doesn't know where he stands, and… and he doesn't know who this fuckin' kid is sitting next to him is. He thought he did, but…

Sam slumps back into his seat, eyes fluttering shut in that way that means he already regrets his words. “Dean—” Sam starts on a tired sigh.

“No, you're right,” Dean admits slowly, voice deep and croaking, “of course you've changed.” Dean's changed too, a lot more than he likes to think about most days.

“That's not what I—” Sam starts, but cuts himself off abruptly. He lets his head fall back against the seat, eyes still closed, speaking to the ceiling. “I just wanted to get out of there. I tried to get you to play along.”

Dean lets out a curt, bitter chuckle, “Right.” Knee bumps. How the hell was he supposed to read that as, _'let's handcuff the Sheriff and bail.'_

Sam goes quiet again, looks out the window.

“And now we're gonna have the fuckin' cops after us, on top of whatever skeezy folks ran that fuckin' auction,” Dean mutters meanly, glaring out the windshield as he gets them back on the interstate, letting loose on the accelerator now that there's aren't any kids without seatbelts in the back. He's got a full day of driving ahead and he really wants to get back to his Baby.

“Umm,” Sam pipes up hesitantly, “you're headed east.”

Dean glances over once, still feeling an internal whirlwind of outrage and bewilderment, but he can't keep it up when he sees Sammy's face. That same expression Dean remembers from back when they used to fight as kids, when Sam would come up to him after with an apology and a hug and ask if they could play together again. The look on his face was always uncertain, like he wasn't quite sure if Dean would forgive him, but the answer was yes every damn time. And that's not gonna stop now.

Dean lets out a long exhale and forcibly puts the image of Sheriff Donna's shell shocked face out of his head, eyes back on the road. “Yeah, gotta go back for the Impala. I'm not leaving her parked in Detroit for days. Plus, she can blaze outta Michigan a helluva lot faster than this thing,” he adds, patting the steering wheel.

Sam's face twists distastefully. “We have to go back?”

Dean glances over a few times. “Yeah… I mean, I can leave you outside the city limits, swing by and pick you up on—”

_“No!”_ Sam snaps immediately. At Dean's raised eyebrows, he clears his throat and repeats at a more reasonable volume, “No, I think we should stick together.” 

Dean's not sure how to respond to that kind of reaction, but he'd only made the offer for Sam's sake anyway. He's not all that keen on the idea of letting his brother out of his sight either. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “So we switch cars in Detroit, and I should be able to get us to Sioux Falls in under ten hours—”

“You're just gonna drive straight through?” Sam questions. “Dean, you look like you're about to pass out.”

“You got a better idea?” Dean shoots right back. “Now that we got the cops after us, you know any place that's safe to hunker down for a day?”

Sam goes quiet again, turning to point his stupidly adorable frowny face out the passenger window. Dean actually lets out a short huff of ironic laughter. Maybe Sam hasn't changed that much after all.

Dean just got him back—four years of feeling dead inside, of searching 'til he wanted to claw his own eyes out, just so he could stop seeing all the places that never had Sam in them. Four years of not knowing if his little brother was even alive, but never daring to think about it, because he knew the day he accepted Sam was gone for good was the day he drank himself to death. And even with all that, somehow it takes them less than four hours back together to start arguing.

At that thought, Dean's twitch of a smile widens into a real one and he shakes his head at the stretch of open interstate, ending a quiet chuckle with a long sigh. “Oh, Sammy. Fuck, have I missed you, kid.”

Sam turns back to him, his face scrunched up in that special way that means he can't decide if Dean's insane or just kinda dumb. Been giving Dean that look since before he hit double digits and yeah, things have changed, but the important stuff is the same. Sam is his baby brother. His giant, psycho, unpredictable, method-acting, pulling-guns-on-friendly-sheriffs baby brother. And Dean loves the goddamn kid so much it hurts.

He feels like it's hitting him again, washing over him like a wave, that the search for Sammy is over. That his brother is alive, and safe, and coming home.

Sam lets out a soft laugh too, the kind where you can tell he didn't mean to but couldn't help it. “I can't even explain with words how much I missed you, Dean.” But there's something in the way he says it, something that hints at what their time apart was like for Sam; just enough of a lilt in his voice so that Dean knows Sam is being gravely sincere.

_Same here,_ Dean thinks and he means it for all the same reasons, because his life has been Hell on Earth since the day Sam disappeared, and there aren't words invented to talk about it. But Dean doesn't say it aloud because a new thought has sprung up in his mind. Or really, an old one with a lot of new, blood-chilling implications. Where the hell has Sam been? And how did he end up naked on that stage, paraded in front of a bunch of sadistic millionaires? _What happened to him?_ God does Dean wish he could live with not knowing; he wishes he didn't have to ask, because he doesn't want to force Sam to talk about it. But he's gotta know. He'll never be able to sleep again if he doesn't. 

“Sam, I—” Dean starts, stomach souring from the sudden mood swings, low to high to low, “Do you, um… know anything? About Detroit. I mean, do you think they're gonna be lookin' for us? Stickin' around in the city for very long?”

Sam's demeanor shifts so quickly, it's like back in the holding room, like sobbing to deadly serious in a millisecond. His face drops, all of its muscles going limp at the same time, as impassive and empty as a doll. He looks away with a jerk of his head, hair swaying with the motion.

“I don't think they stick around, no,” Sam answers blandly, soft enough it almost blends with the steady hum of the engine.

Dean opens his mouth a couple times to ask another question, but he can't find the right one or the right way to say it. Finally he just winces and gives up. He figures this conversation can wait until he's had six hours of sleep and a cup of Joe.

Sammy's quiet for a little longer, the miles back to the city disappearing underneath their tires at a steady, swift pace. At some point, Dean has to look over to change lanes and sees Sammy is watching him with an appraising expression, eyes hidden in the shadow of his new heavy brow and the darkness of the cab, only lit intermittently by passing headlights.

“What?” Dean asks.

Sam stares for a few more seconds before he lowers his gaze. He speaks slowly, like he has to concentrate to get each word out. “You're really not gonna ask?” His deep voice is laced with something between disbelief and black humor.

Dean just looks back at the highway, the flashing reflectors of the lanes, wishes everything could be as simple as driving. “You don't have to tell me, Sammy. You don't have to talk about anything if you don't want to, and I'm not about to make you.” It's only half of a lie, because it's true at this moment, but Dean is absolutely certain that eventually he's gonna need to ask.

Sam's face pinches in a way Dean's not really familiar with, almost like he's… hurt?

“I know that,” Sam breathes, sounding much more like himself, like the Sammy Dean remembers. “I just… I thought you'd have offered to rip someone's lungs out by now,” Sam replies with a fake, awkward laugh.

Dean doesn't smile, but it feels like his chest is being slowly crushed by a boa constrictor, feels like his belly is full of something rotten. He has to swallow down a reflexive gag at even the idea of someone like Ezra being in the same room as Sammy. In truth, part of Dean knows already, knows exactly what happened to his little brother. Two sides of him internally war: the side that wants to know every detail, every name so that he can hunt down every last one of those sick bastards and _punish_ them with his bare hands, and the side that never wants to know, sickened at the mere suggestion.

Dean shakes his head, but can't open his mouth to speak, afraid all that will come out is screaming.

Sam watches him and must read right through Dean's brave face, must see exactly how he's feeling, because Sam bites his bottom lip hard and slumps forward, head hanging low and shoulders drooping. “I know…” is all Sam mumbles, voice weak enough to drown in a breeze, unshed tears clinging to each syllable. “I'm sorry—”

“Hell no,” Dean bursts out uncontrollably, thick and fervent like a clap of thunder. “Don't you say that, Sammy,” he breathes out, voice colored with rage and fear and heartache. “Don't you ever fuckin' say that.”

Sam squints up at him through his bangs, then nods reluctantly. After another minute, Sam adds, “The answer is yes, Dean. Just so you can stop torturing yourself. Yeah, it… it happened but—I'm okay. Alive.”

Dean's eyelids fall shut just for a second, mouth trembling as he holds himself together by force, purposefully doesn't let himself think about it, doesn't want to see it behind his eyelids. He sniffs hard, wet, sucking it all back in. Dean keeps his gaze on the road, jaw clenched, expression stony. He wishes for one burning, blood-red second that he'd killed Dimitri slower.

It takes Dean a handful of minutes, just breathing, before he can finally turn to Sam and force a shaky smile. “And that's what matters, Sammy,” voice whooshing out of his lungs all in a rush. He sniffs again, manages to speak like a goddamn man, “You're alive. That's what matters.”

Sam nods eagerly, like he's so ready to believe that, like he desperately wants it to be true.

That's how Dean knows it isn't. Not for Sam.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I know this story is taking some big twists and I hope you all will stay on for the ride. Next chapter will discuss how Sam went missing.
> 
> Every Kudo/Comment is appreciated.  
> How do you think the story is going so far? Where do you think it's headed?
> 
> Next chapter will be up on Monday. See you then <3


	5. Chapter 5

 

Dean opens his door with a familiar metallic creak and steps out of the Impala, groaning heartily as he stretches and tips his face up toward the warm mid-morning sun. It feels so good he gets a few shivers as his muscles settle back into place. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out with a relaxed smile. Gas stations have a certain scent, a mixture of gasoline and sugar and hot asphalt usually, and this is exactly that.

They're at a big fill-up truck stop in Iowa, only a couple hours out from Sioux Falls. There are big rigs and pickups coming and going, the shiny glass doors of the convenience store on a continuous swivel as customers come in and out, the highway busy with traffic. He sees not just truckers and farmers but families with minivans and a group of college students in a busted old Honda halfway through their road trip. Dean's never really had a home, but there are a few places in the world familiar enough to almost feel like it. Run-down bars and cheap motel rooms and gas stations, little pieces of home scattered across the landscape of the lower 48, each one similar enough for comfort but distinct enough to never get lost.

Dean's standing with his hands folded on the sun-warmed roof of the Impala, appreciating the simple pleasure of being free from the big city. One of the college students, a cute curly-haired brunette, smiles at him, even waves like maybe she recognized him from somewhere. Dean's tired down to his bones, rubbery and zombie-ish, but in a good enough mood that he nods his head back, lifting one hand in acknowledgment. She turns then, walking inside the impressively sized store. Dean bends down to look through the driver's side window.

Sammy is still asleep in the passenger seat, his red blanket lying useless and rumpled in the footwell. He's leaning against the door with his arms crossed low across his belly, head tipped back against the half-open window, long neck fully extended with his drooly mouth hanging open, hair a wild mess from the wind shuffling through it. Dean feels an internal smile at the sight, but his face doesn't have the energy.

He's seen a lot more gas stations than he has little brothers in the last four years, but looking at Sam feels more like home than anything Dean's ever known.

They had made it back to Detroit well before sunrise, Dean parking the step van at _Jay's Garden & Wholesale. _ He left it exactly where he found it, a courtesy he's rarely taken for boosted vehicles, but he'd figured whoever owns the van didn't deserve to wake up and find it missing. Hopefully the owners will see the empty gas tank and exposed wires beneath the steering column and assume some kid stole it for a joyride. But no matter how grateful Dean was to the van that'd been reliable all night, it's got nothing on his Baby. He remembers the way Sam's face had lit up with recognition, his eyes unable to find a place to land, trailing all over the Impala like he was trying to memorize it, the ghost of a smile pulling at his lips.

They were quick and quiet about switching vehicles, only pausing long enough for Sammy to put on a pair of Dean's socks and grungy old Chuck Taylors that had been clunking around in the trunk for months. They fit Sam too snugly, and he'll need his own pair soon. There was little fanfare as they settled in the car side by side, in the cold and dark of early morning, their breath leaving streams of clouds in the air. Dean blamed it on lack of food and sleep—because he couldn't think of anything to say, not a joke or a tease or even an order to get in the backseat and catch a few hours of shuteye. He just climbed in and wordlessly started the engine, Sam slipping into the passenger seat like there's nowhere he belongs more.

Within the twenty minutes it took for Dean to get back on the interstate, headed south this time to skirt Kalamazoo on his way to South Dakota, Sammy was fast asleep.

Most of the last seven hours on the road has passed in a trance for Dean, a blur of lights and signs and lanes. He couldn't pick out any specific events or landmarks if somebody offered him a thousand bucks. He's been mostly running on autopilot, but the few parts of his mind not numbed by utter exhaustion have been entirely concentrated on Sammy.

He's tried hard to put last night's conversation out of his head, trying to keep himself off that endless hamster wheel of guilt and anger and pain. He doesn't have enough detail to start materializing the nightmares in his head, but he can feel them there, waiting. The unknown is nearly as terrifying as knowing for sure, and Dean has so many questions he doesn't know what to do with them all. He can't just dump them on Sam.

But Sammy had said… _'it happened,'_ and Dean's anxious, grasping brain has shuffled through the myriad of meanings that could have. He thinks he knows—the afterimage of a puddle of blood in the bathtub of an Ohio hotel flashing in his mind's eye—but he doesn't want to assume. If Sam decides to fill in the blanks, fine, but until then, Dean's not jumping to any conclusions.

He pays at the pump with a fake card and fills the tank, rubbing his eyes and considering running into the Gas 'n' Sip for at least some coffee, if not a couple packs of Marlboros. He's been trying to quit, but at this point, Dean kinda thinks he deserves a treat. After all, he did just complete the biggest hunt of his life. He's hanging up the fuel nozzle when he hears Sammy snort himself awake, jerking upright in his seat and breathing hard.

Quick as the crack of a whip, Sam's left arm lashes out for the driver's seat, flat palm slapping the empty vinyl hard. “Dean!” Sam calls, and there's so much naked fear in his voice that Dean reacts immediately.

“Right here, Sammy,” he says, making the teen's head swing around to look up at him through the passenger window.

Sam blinks at him owlishly, eyes so wide Dean can see the whites all the way around, nostrils flared and thin breaths rattling in and out at a fast pace, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Dean reaches through the open window thoughtlessly, and as soon as he gets a hand on Sam's shoulder his whole body seems to collapse, folding forward so he nearly brains himself on the dash, air whooshing out of him in thick, loud gusts.

“Sam?” Dean asks, growing more concerned each second. “Sammy? You with me?”

Sam is shaking, the white tee stretched over his back thin enough that Dean can see the line of his vertebrae and, faintly, the color of his skin. Sam's shoulders are twitching erratically and he’s making soft, muffled noises. Dean's blood runs cold, his mind jumping to all the worst possibilities: a demon attack, a spell, a slow-acting poison.

Dean rips open the passenger door and gets a grip on Sam, trying to lift him out of the car to assess the danger, the damage. It's not as much of a struggle as he expected, Sam sitting up readily with tears streaming down his cheeks but he's not crying, he's— _laughing._

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean grunts firmly, thinking that his brother is having a fucking psychotic break. He pulls Sam halfway out of the car, gets his feet on the ground, and then grabs his shaggy head and forces it down between his knees. Sam tries to go with it, but he's laughing too hard.

“Oh god, Dean,” Sam heaves in between his exuberant giggles, his hands landing on Dean's arms. “I tho-ught it was a-all a fuckin' _dre-am!_ ” he says, the words nearly unintelligible through his arrhythmic breathing.

The relief is instantaneous, the hard knot of dread beneath Dean's breastbone releasing, like his ears popping. Dean's crouched in front of the open passenger door, and his self-awareness kicks in just as fast as his fear went away. He glances around cagily, but no one else seems to have noticed them yet. Dean smacks his palm down on one of Sam's bony knees and rolls his eyes, mostly at Sam's continued laughter but maybe a little at himself for freaking out too.

“So you, what? Try to give me a goddamn heart attack?” Dean asks gruffly as he stands, sounding pissed even if he actually isn't.

Sam's still giggling, the timbre of his voice so different than what Dean remembers but somehow familiar. Forearms on his thighs, Sam cranes his long neck and looks up at Dean—the sunlight highlighting the dizzying swirl of gold in his foggy irises, just the way Dean remembers—stray tears on his cheeks but grinning like a lunatic. He must still be able to read through Dean's fake temper because he just wipes at his nose and replies, “I guess?” on the tail of another laugh.

Dean purses his mouth into an annoyed frown, resisting the urge to pop his little brother upside his giant head. Instead he turns to walk away, intending to go get that damn coffee. He doesn't get far.

Sam shoots up out of his seat, wrapping long, wiry arms around Dean's back, hugging him so tight that it hurts to inhale.

“Sam,” Dean sighs out impatiently, standing awkward for a few seconds in the circle of his brother's arms. But Sam's not laughing anymore, face buried at the nape of Dean's neck and pressing his whole body against him. Reminds Dean of the way he used to pick Sam up, the way the boy's arms and legs would automatically wrap around Dean's neck and hips for piggy-back rides, like a little mop-haired monkey.

The first sob rises to the surface and pops out of Sam like a hiccup, shakes his whole chest, and it's swiftly followed by another and another. Dean sees his brother's fingers clawing, tightening to grip Dean's shirt. He lifts his hands to touch Sam's clenched fists, tentative at first but then holding on.

“Okay,” Dean mutters, his thumb rubbing soothing shapes along Sam's white knuckles. “Okay, Sammy. It's okay.”

Dean gently pries Sam's hands off, only succeeding when Sam realizes Dean's trying to turn and face him. He turns and Sam's right there, inches away. The expression on his face is full of so much emotion, so much raw elation and relief, that Sam's mouth starts to wobble like a tank slapper and his lashes go wet. Dean knows what that face means.

He immediately pulls Sam into his chest and squeezes, Sam going eagerly and squeezing him right back. It doesn't even take ten seconds for Sam to start crying for real, each sob getting lower and rougher as sinks into Dean's arms, like he just can't hold himself up anymore. He's not all that loud about it—never was, even as a baby—but Sammy's whole body is hitching and jerking as he tries to hold it in. The steady voice at the back of Dean's head that tells him to get on the road, not to attract attention, fades away into a rush of intense feeling that Dean couldn't describe if he had a thesaurus on hand.

“God,” Dean whispers, pressing his face into Sammy's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his living body beneath the scratchy soft cotton. “Oh god, Sammy,” Dean chokes weakly, voice whistling out of his throat too high-pitched and strained. He doesn't bother feeling embarrassed, but has just enough awareness to know he will be later. Some of the sounds Sam's making, Dean doesn't know if it's crying or laughing, but it doesn't fucking matter because Sam's _alive_.

Sam's knees buckle suddenly and only Dean's hold keeps him from going down. Sam's a helluva lot heavier than he was as a kid, and Dean's only strong enough to control their fall, slowly setting Sam on the raised curb the gas pumps are lined up on. He tries to stand, to close the car door, but Sam's grip is implacable.

Dean's murmuring reassuring words, telling Sam to breathe, but he doesn't fight his brother and doesn't forcibly free himself. He goes down on one knee, between Sam's long legs, squeezes his brother as snug as he possibly can. It’s not easy, the angle all wrong, so that both of them have to lean in uncomfortably, Sam slumped forward and smushing his face against Dean’s collarbone. Dean still can’t let go, can't help hoping that maybe if he's stronger this time, he'll never lose Sammy again.

“I gotchu, Sammy,” Dean slurs wetly, laughing a little too. He rubs Sam's back, repetitive strokes from the nape of his neck to midway down his spine, trying to soothe him. It takes a minute or so, but Sam calms down enough to let Dean go, the sound of his crying trickling to a stop.

Dean pulls away but he doesn't go far, sitting beside Sam on the curb, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling Sammy firmly against his side. Sam leans into Dean gladly, exhaling shakily as his head falls against Dean's chest, his hair pressing up beneath Dean's chin. Dean presses a quick kiss to his little brother's crown and Sam accepts it silently, only pulling his arms tighter around Dean's stomach.

Dean can't say how long they sit there, getting dirty looks from others trying to pull in to get their fuel. Dean glares right back at anyone who stares too long. One guy—young, white, pick-up truck and a ball cap with the Packers logo—curls his lip up at them as he walks past and Dean bristles.

“What the fuck are you lookin' at?” he snaps, but the guy simply continues on his way. “Yeah, keep walkin',” Dean rumbles. Sam snuffles out an amused snicker but doesn't lift his head to look.

Sammy doesn't pay much attention to their surroundings at first, seems completely overwhelmed by being next to Dean, but eventually he starts to come out of it. He blinks up as people pass by, starts clearing his throat and wiping his face, uncurls from Dean's side and sits up straight.

They end up hanging out at the gas station a little longer than Dean intended, Sammy's stomach growling grumpily and Dean's caffeine craving impossible to ignore. He moves the Impala, parking her in one of the spots along the side of the convenience store. He and Sam brave the crowds of shoppers long enough to grab some pre-made sandwiches and drinks. Dean does get a coffee and a pack of Marlboros. Sam is seemingly back to normal, no more emotional outbursts, but he sticks like glue to Dean's side, never straying out of arm's reach.

They eat mostly in silence, sitting on Baby's hood and watching the other people come and go, different cars pulling in and then disappearing into the rush of traffic on the highway. Sam eats slower than Dean remembers and grimaces a few times like he's not really enjoying it. When Dean asks, Sam shrugs it off, says he's fine.

“So,” Dean starts, tapping his pack against his palm roughly a few times before he opens it and pulls a cigarette out. He lights it with the cheap lighter he snagged at the register, sucking on the filter to get the tip nice and hot. Just the smell of it, the pale gray smoke wafting in tendrils from the lit end, makes him feel better. When he exhales his first drag, Dean finally finishes, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

Sam's face twists, aversion and distress, so Dean clarifies, “I mean when you disappeared. What happened, Sam? We looked everywhere for you.”

Sam's shoulders drop and his expression smooths with a sigh. He turns his face away, blankly watching the customers in the Gas 'n' Sip mosey around the aisles or rush to get in line, visible only in flashes through the ad-covered windows. “I haven't even thought about it,” Sam says, “in years.”

Dean frowns down at the narrow sidewalk between them and the convenience store, tracing unknowable patterns in the dark stains of old gum and cigarette butts. Wonders if that means Sam gave up on anyone finding him. He doesn't dare to ask, definitely doesn't want to hear the answer.

“We were in California,” Sam says and Dean nods, listening, remembering, “and you and Dad had driven one town over to talk to a witness or something. I was just about to start walking back to the motel from school…” Sam's words trail into silence.

Dean takes a few more drags, pulling the hot smoke into his lungs, careful to exhale away from Sammy. The kid is slouching low, also staring at the sidewalk, expression something too complex for Dean to decipher. When the silence stretches, Dean nudges Sam's shoulder with his own.

“Ridgeview High,” Dean fills in detail, hoping Sam will start doing the same.

“Yeah,” Sam answers, a hint of nostalgia in his voice, “I went to the library for a few hours, for the air conditioning. Then, when I was leaving this guy pulled up next to me, offered me a ride.”

It sounds like the beginning to every horror story.

“You get a name?” Dean asks, flicking his thumb down on the filter of his cig, the powder gray ash falling away from the cherried tip.

“Reuben.” Sam nods, then looks down, picking at the cellophane on his turkey sandwich. “Don't remember a last name,” he finishes before taking a bite. “He was a senior, in my Spanish class. He seemed nice… _seemed_.

“And man, it was sweltering out there—felt like being in an oven, like the whole town was cooking me alive. And I don't know… it just didn't seem like a big deal. So I went with him.” Sam grimaces once, like he bit into a lemon, but then he rakes a hand straight back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. It falls right back down. His expression clears. “We actually went to an arcade first, and I didn't have any cash, but he loaned me a ten. And by the time we left it was starting to get dark; he said he had to stop by home first, before driving me to the motel.

“We get to his house and he invites me in, offers a turn on the PlayStation he was bragging about, so I…” Sam sighs, sounding pissed at himself. “I went in. We played for a bit, I barely remember what games, and then he offered me a drink. Went to the kitchen and came back with two _glasses_ of soda instead of cans, and I knew—” He turns to Dean then, eyes imploring him to understand. “I knew I shouldn't. I know the rules about accepting drinks but I—his goddamn _mom_ was home. I just didn't think…”

Dean just bites the inside of his cheek, swallowing down his frustration and disappointment; he’s not about to scold Sam for something Dean's sure he's already been kicking himself over. But it's not in him to be accepting of mistakes either, so Dean keeps his mouth shut, tosses the end of his cigarette onto the concrete to fizzle out, and nudges Sam again to keep him talking.

Sam's head falls in shame, talking down to his knees and half-finished sandwich. His voice is bitter with self-censure as he says, “He was nice and popular and I didn't want everyone at school to think of me as a freak. So I… I drank it. Barely thought twice. Then I started getting dizzy, felt like I was about to fall asleep on his couch. It all gets pretty foggy from there.”

“Just tell me what you remember,” Dean replies, the same way he interviews witnesses.

Sam shrugs loosely, keeps his gaze down at his knees. Dean's eyes narrow, his gut giving a faint twinge of suspicion, but he can't imagine what Sam would lie about. Dean shakes it off, knows Sam is ashamed and more than a little traumatized.

“The next thing I know for sure is waking up in the shed. Didn't know it was a shed at the time, just that it had a concrete floor, wooden walls, no insulation, no lights. I was dizzy and sick, handcuffed.”

Dean winces, has to look away from Sam because he can see it in his mind too clearly: scrawny, fifteen-year-old Sammy, handcuffed and drugged. Sam keeps talking lowly in clipped sentences, saying the drugs made everything dreamlike and vague. He describes being locked in and wandering around his tiny cell, says he was in there for over a week, which means he was still there when Dean and Dad started searching. Hearing that is like a suckerpunch to the gut, because as hard as Dean searched, as many leads as he chased down into the ground, he never got anywhere near what Sam is describing.

He never found that shed and it makes him feel like a total fucking failure.

“I almost escaped once,” Sam comments lightly, like it's all one big joke, even chuckles once as he explains, “They didn't watch me a lot, so I'd been gradually kicking a hole into a weak section of wall. When it was big enough, I waited 'til night and picked my cuffs with a rusty nail. Crawled out through the hole into this crazy overgrown backyard, full of rusted out junk and tarps. And Reuben was right there, sitting on the back patio.

“I took off running, but he caught me when I was halfway over the fence and pulled me back. We started fighting, but then some other guys came running from the house. They ganged up on me.” Sam's eyes have glazed over, like he's seeing it all play out in his head.

“They kicked my ass,” Sam retells, voice trying for levity but only managing to make it sound all the more horrific, “bad enough they didn't have to handcuff me again before dragging me back into the shed, leaving me in there.” He sucks in a shaking breath and holds it for few seconds, releases it in a slow stream. “In the morning, they drugged me again, an injection that time. The next thing I know, I'm tied up in the back of a van. Never saw Reuben again. Guessing he sold me.”

The way Sam says it, as casually as retelling one of their hunts, makes Dean literally nauseous with fury and inadequacy, regret and disgust—at himself, at the twisted motherfuckers that could do something like this to a _kid._ Dean's not an idiot for all that he sometimes plays one, and it doesn't take a genius to know the week Sam spent in that shed was probably more eventful than he's admitting. They definitely didn't just leave him alone in there the whole time, but Sam's not saying and Dean's not gonna ask.

More than anything, Dean feels sick with the knowledge that this is all his fault.

“I'm sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispers, because it's all he's got, because he's thought those words every day for years. Every night he went to sleep without finding any new leads.

He always thought it'd be easier once he knew for sure. The panic he'd felt when he first realized they'd really lost Sam never actually went away, it just roiled inside him. At first it was helpful; panic wouldn't allow him to give up, to get complacent. But that kind of feeling can't burn over the long haul, and it slowly rotted, curdling in his belly until it was only a constant, painful reminder that he was never finished working. He'd always held onto a tiny shred of hope that he'd finally be able to relax when he knew the truth.

Hearing what really happened is worse than Dean ever imagined, and he doesn't know how to say that, doesn't want to say something stupid and make Sam feel like whatever happened to him makes him less of a man.

So he settles for _'I'm sorry.'_

Sam turns to look at him, a melancholy smile tugging at the corners of his lips, eyes bleak and cheerless and ancient, like the memories he's had flashing in his head have aged him ten years.

“Me too,” Sammy whispers back.

 

Xx--xX

 

When they get to Sioux Falls, Sammy is glued to the window, staring at the familiar shapes of the store fronts on Main Street and the humble small-town folk going about their business like today is any other day. Dean gets it: this place is like a damn time capsule. Not much has changed in the look and feel of the town since the '70s, and each time Dean drives through, it's a comfort. No matter how much the world changes, how much he changes, there are still things that he can count on to stay the same.

Bobby Singer's surliness is another of those things.

Pulling up to Singer Salvage is a whole new set of worries because how exactly is Dean supposed to break this news? And a little voice inside reminds him that this won't even hold a candle to how Dad'll react. The only reason he hasn't called already is that he knows Dad's gonna have too many questions and Dean doesn't think either he or Sam can handle that right now. They step out into the damp gravel, doors squeaking as they swing closed. Bobby's newest mutt, Rumsfeld, is sitting on the front stoop with his big droopy face lying on his oversized paws. He lifts his head disinterestedly as Dean approaches but sounds off a bark at the sight of Sam.

“Cute.” Sam smiles, and Dean's forehead creases in confusion. What part of that mangy pup, with its drooly jowls and saggy skin and lolling, fleshy tongue, is _cute?_

Sam holds out a hand, fingers curled in loosely for the dog to get his scent. Rumsfeld is happy to sniff at him, even licking Sam once, but Dean just scowls and stomps up the stairs to the front door. He raps businesslike on the sturdy frame and then calls, loud and obnoxious, “Bobby! Open up!”

Half a minute later, the door swings open hard and fast, Bobby Singer standing there in his ratty flannel and hat, glowering like Dean is a damn Mormon come to tell him the 'Good News' or something. “The hell are you doin' on my front porch?” Bobby demands. “You couldn't think to warn me you're comin' over to lay about my goddamn house like some—”

Bobby cuts off when he looks over Dean's shoulder to where Sam is crouched down by Rumsfeld. Realizing he's been spotted, Sam slowly stands, still at the bottom of the porch steps. Bobby has gone pale, and he turns angry eyes to Dean. “Who the hell is that?”

Dean's mouth twitches upward smugly as he levels Bobby with a serious look, happy to be delivering good news for once. “Take one guess,” he replies.

Bobby is shocked silent, looking pretty dopey with his mouth hanging open like that. Sam's got a nervous smile as he walks up the steps and stands beside Dean. He swallows audibly before looking right at the older man and saying, “Uncle Bobby.”

Dean's getting more smug the longer Bobby stands there completely gobsmacked. It takes a lot to surprise Bobby Singer, and Dean's kinda proud that he's finally managed it.

“ _Sam?_ ” Bobby hisses in disbelief.

Sam ducks his head in a nod, lifts it again grinning. “Been a while.”

“So you gonna make us stand outside all day or what?” Dean snarks.

Bobby straightens up, coming back to himself as he steps aside and opens the door wide for them. Bobby's walking deeper into the house, towards his living room, and there's nothing to do but follow. Sam's looking around, taking in the cluttered, dusty atmosphere of Bobby's place, how little it's changed since '98.

Dean's already opened his mouth to start explaining, saving Sam the trouble. “Yeah, remember that job you told me to keep my ass out of in Detroit?” Dean preens as he steps into the living room. Bobby's turned away, shuffling around his desk, probably looking for his phone or something. “Guess who I—” Dean's cut off mid-word by a splash of salty, metallic water hitting him right in the face. Sam splutters through getting splashed too.

“The hell was that?” Sam asks urgently as he wipes his face and spits straight onto the rug. He suddenly looks cagey, breathing harder as he takes a step closer to Dean.

“Holy water.” Dean rolls his eyes, tiredly lifting a hand to get the worst of the salt out of his eyes. “We're not demons,” he deadpans to Bobby.

Bobby looks marginally sheepish, setting down his flask and shrugging. “Can never be too sure these days.”

Dean can't really argue that, but he can still be pissed about it, so he levels Bobby with an unimpressed scowl. He's too tired to think of a good joke, and his body is starting to quit on him now that it feels safe behind salt lines and sigils.

Bobby can't take his eyes off Sam, and they're looking conspicuously shiny. “Where the hell have you been, kid? Been searchin' heaven and hell for you.”

Sam's still tense, warier now that Bobby's caught him off guard, but he starts to relax again. “I don't really have an easy answer to that,” Sam replies diplomatically.

“And we're exhausted,” Dean pipes up, eager for a bed now that he's thought about it. “How much of a recap do you need before I can pass out?”

Bobby harrumphs, looking impatient and ornery as he sits on the edge of his cluttered desk. “I guess it can wait. At least tell me where you found him—won't be no one chasin' after y'all, right?”

Dean looks down at the rug, not sure how to answer or if Sam even wants him to. How can he just plainly say, _'Sammy was at a slave auction, Bobby. Found him by total chance?'_ There's no way to describe the awfulness of the whole thing, and Dean's not sure it's his place to speak for Sam anymore. Before, he wouldn't have hesitated to answer a question for his brother, but now? The subject is too sensitive, and Sam is… different.

Sam clears his throat softly and nudges Dean's shoulder; it's permission to speak. Dean's secretly pleased that not everything about Sam has changed, but the prospect of having to explain the last 24 hours to anyone is daunting.

The pause is long enough that Bobby's eyes have narrowed and his frown has cut deeper into the lines of his face. Dean finally clears his throat too and explains, “The auction I snuck into. Smuggled him out. Shouldn't be anyone coming after us; I was careful.”

Bobby blinks a few times, eyes going back and forth between Sam and Dean as the cogs turn in his head. Dean sees the instant Bobby really understands, the moment he realizes Sam wasn't a security guard, or a customer, or a random passerby. His scrutinizing expression drops into one of intense sadness and shock as his eyes desperately search Sam's face, looking for any indication that he's guessed wrong; he won’t find it. The gruff old hunter looks perilously close to tears, which makes something restless and uncomfortable twist around Dean's guts. Dean can't help fidgeting a bit with his fingers, cringing his way through the awkwardness of it all and wanting it to be over.

Bobby nods down at the carpet, hiding his face behind the bill of his hat. “Yeah, well. I guess we can figure it all out after the two 'a' you get some shuteye.” He sniffs hard once—and wow, this really is the closest Dean's ever come to seeing Bobby Singer cry—but manages to hold it all in by the skin of his teeth. “I've got some stuff to take care of in the garage anyway,” he adds offhand, emotions wrangled into submission.

Dean feels a rush of gratitude; he can always trust Bobby to keep it together.

Both Sam and Dean say thank you, and Dean means it all the way down to his bones. He can't name how many times Bobby's pulled his ass outta the fire, and getting Sammy back safe is another victory that wouldn't have been possible without his help. Dean knows he and Sam should clear out and give him some space.

“We'll get outta your way,” Dean replies, gratitude plain on his face as he approaches the older man, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder warmly. Bobby returns the gesture, claps a heavy hand down on Dean's shoulder and squeezes once, strong and life-affirming.

Bobby heads for the kitchen, stopping to squeeze Sammy's shoulder too. The kid's face is hot with emotion, more tears being held in by sheer stubbornness. Sam forces a smile for Bobby, thanks him again softly before giving in and wrapping his long arms around the man. Dean lifts his eyebrows, because that's a little weird, but then again, Sam did say it would be.

Bobby doesn't seem to know how to react at first, standing stiff before he hesitantly responds, hugging Sam back tightly. It lasts only a couple seconds before they're both letting go and taking a necessary step back. Sam's got shiny trails down his cheeks, but everyone in the room manfully ignores them.

Bobby's voice is husky and rueful but endlessly warm as he says, “Happy to have you back, kid.”

Sam apparently doesn't trust his voice because he just nods, looking at Bobby with those sad puppy eyes.

Bobby exits through the backdoor in the kitchen, probably going to the garage like he said, while Sam and Dean make their way upstairs. That reunion hadn't been all that bad, though Dean knows the real work won't start until the dust settles and the questions start. Upstairs, Sam and Dean have only ever slept in one room, and they head there by rote.

Bobby's guest room is a small thing with a slanted ceiling and only one window directly across from the door. It's really not that small, but feels plenty cramped by the stacks of boxes and books that fill nearly every corner. There's a thin layer of dust on everything, motes hanging in the heavy air, and Dean is almost positive this room hasn't been used since the last time he was in it over six months ago. There are two twin beds set on opposite sides of the room, a bedside table between them just underneath the window.

Dean's kicking off his boots within seconds and then falling onto the bed on the left, the one set against the slanted wall, with a groan. It feels so good to get horizontal it hurts, joints protesting and muscles threatening to cramp, like his body has trouble adjusting to the sensation of relaxing. He's fully clothed but doesn't give a single fuck, already halfway asleep. He'll be all the way there as soon as he hears Sammy settle in too.

Sam's slower about it, taking the time to look around first. Dean's on his stomach, face turned toward the wall, but he can hear as Sam walks to the window and lifts it open with one quiet grunt; the fresh air meanders in, gradually clearing the musty, shut-in smell. Sammy must pull the lace curtains, cream-colored with age, because the room dims, creating a sort of midday twilight and making it all the easier to fall asleep. Dean's whole body feels leaden, but he can't actually slip under yet, still listening as Sam sits to take his shoes off. Dean can hear the faint clacking of the aglets hitting the wooden floor, then the shuffling of denim as Sam pulls off his jeans. He hears Sam shake out the blankets, coughing under his breath at the dust he kicks up, then the shrill creak of springs as he climbs in. Dean's eyes are open to slits, and he turns his head to watch the shadows of the room as Sammy scoots closer to his wall and pulls the covers up.

Dean finally lets his eyes fall closed then. He barely has enough time to regret not getting under his own covers before he's out like a light.

 

Xx--xX

 

When Dean wakes, it's dark.

He groggily flips over onto his back with an involuntary groan, rubbing the crusty sleep out of his clumped lashes. He figures it’s probably nighttime and considers finding a new comfy position and falling back asleep, but something about the room feels off, too quiet. When he looks over, he finds Sam’s bed empty, the covers rumpled like he left in a hurry.

Dean sits up, heart rate accelerating and on its way to a full gallop. He tries to get out of bed, but his legs are tangled in his blanket. Dean roughly snags the offending fabric, intending to throw it aside, when his mind catches up and he recognizes it. The red blanket, the same one he’d insisted on wrapping around Sam’s shoulders on their way to Kalamazoo, the one Sam had wordlessly taken with him when they abandoned the step van.

Dean’s fingers absently stroke the soft fleece, panic dissipating, like a valve turning, slow and steady release. Bobby wouldn’t have brought the blanket in from the Impala, so Sam must’ve gotten up and gone downstairs. It figures that the kid wouldn’t sleep as long as Dean, since he got a chance to rest on the way here.

He still feels drained, half of him wanting to pull the red blanket up to his chin and sleep, but he knows instinctively that he’ll find no rest until he can confirm with his own eyes that Sam is safe. He groans and grumps his way through standing up, every adrenaline-numbed ache returning with a vengeance; his knees pop and protest, every muscle in his back pulls taut, and he feels like his skin shrunk in the wash. He limps for his first couple of steps, bum ankle still giving him trouble since his last sprain, before his joints warm up and he can walk easy.

He’s glad his profession means he’ll die young, ‘cause if it’s like this at 23, he’ll probably be straight-up crippled by 53.

Peeking his head out the door, Dean hears nothing at first, the hallway empty and silent. The bathroom door stands ajar, dark inside. Then, downstairs, he hears the squeaky hinge on one of Bobby’s kitchen cabinets. Dean turns the corner into the main room and sees Sam in the kitchen, rifling through Bobby’s shelves quietly, every move gentle, likely trying not to wake anyone. The room is dim; aside from the moon, the only true light comes through the window on the left, stripes of citrine glow cast through the blinds and spread across the kitchen table.

Dean doesn’t want to startle him, so he stomps his feet on the rug as he approaches the open doorway. Sam doesn’t seem to hear him, hands drifting over the contents of a high shelf, searching for something.

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs hoarsely, his throat dry from sleep.

Sam goes still, frozen in place with his arms still reaching up into the cabinet, a strange, uncanny tableau that Dean struggles to recognize as his brother. He knows it is, feels it like magnetic pull behind his breastbone, a needle pointing north. But the longer he spends observing Sam, the more he starts to notice his bizarre behavior.

“Sam?” Dean tries again.

The teen lowers his arms first, slow and deliberate, weird enough that Dean wonders for a moment if he’s dreaming. When Sam turns around, his expression is scarily blank, but Dean only sees it in a flash. The second Sam recognizes him, it’s like something snaps into place, the surreal, graceful movements disappearing into slumped shoulders and a crooked smile.

“Dean,” Sam says warmly.

Dean swallows his unease and tries to smile back. “Hey. What’re you doin’ up?” he asks as he grabs one of the kitchen chairs and slides it out to take a seat.

Sam reaches back into the cabinet and pulls out a little box. “Tea,” he says as explanation, holding it up.

Dean raises his chin once in an awkward nod, not really understanding why Sam would want tea at—he glances at the clock on the microwave—4 AM. And wow, it’s 4 AM? That means he slept for nearly 16 hours.

“I didn’t even know Bobby had tea,” Dean comments.

“Me either.” Sam shrugs, snagging a mug from the dish rack by it’s handle. It’s got a faded flamingo on one side, a souvenir from Florida, Dean thinks.

Sam walks around the kitchen like himself now, still careful not to make much noise, but moving like he’s comfortable in his own skin, like he’s real person and not a nightmare’s mirage. He fills the stained, old kettle and places it on the stove before turning around again, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed low across his stomach.

“You think we’re really in the clear? That sheriff lady gonna chase us?” Sam asks.

“Probably not, but you never know,” Dean replies, glad to be back on solid ground. This is the type of conversation he’s ready to have. “Might have to put the word in with Sheriff Mills. Tell her to call off her friend.”

Sam frowns. “Sheriff Mills?”

“Sioux Falls sheriff,” Dean clarifies. “Guess you don’t remember her.”

Sam shakes his head dolefully at the floor.

“Well, it’s not like you’d have met her,” Dean tries to cheer him. “You weren’t the one she tried to put in juvie.”

Sam gives a soundless, amused huff. “ _Tried_ to, huh?”

Dean twitches a grin, “Hard to hold a Winchester.” He means it as a compliment, reluctantly impressed with Sam’s quick thinking in Kalamazoo. As jarring as it was, Dean’s never been one to shy away from violence or hold a lot of respect for the police. He can appreciate the effectiveness, even if thinking back to the moment intensifies the disquiet Dean’s been trying to hide.

From Sam’s stricken face, Dean realizes his mistake and he feels himself go cold. “Sammy, I—”

“No, you’re right,” Sam interjects. His smile is queasy and strained, more of a grimace. “I never made it easy for them.”

Dean blinks, doesn’t know what to do with that information, or how to even wrap his head around it; the fuzzy nightmares floating at the back of his mind incrementally sharpen in focus. Before Dean can think of a single thing to say, the kettle starts to whistle, and Sam hastily scrambles to get it off the heat. Dean can’t tell if it’s to keep from waking Bobby, or just so he has an excuse to turn away.

Sam putters around the kitchen for a few more minutes, while Dean sits there, feeling feckless and stupid, grasping for words that just won’t come. When finally Sam sits down on the other side of the table, he slides the flamingo mug towards Dean. Sam’s got his own mug with a The Little Mermaid cartoon on it—and why the fuck does Bobby have a Little Mermaid mug?

Dean looks down at the pale amber liquid filling the mug set before him, too pale to be whiskey, too steamy to be beer, and he barely resists the urge to turn his nose up. He’s already stuck his foot in his mouth, so he’s not about to risk a stupid joke.

“It’s chamomile,” Sam says, taking a slurping sip. His nose wrinkles, and he looks down into his cup. “I think.”

“Right,” Dean replies doubtfully. He lifts the mug and takes a sip. It’s sweet with honey, but not the worst thing he’s tasted.

They sit together in the peace of early morning, drinking tea and mostly avoiding eye contact, the glowing digital clock on the microwave mocking Dean with each minute that passes. He should be happier than this. He’s got Sam back, basically had his dreams come true, but it’s not panning out the way he pictured it. Dean knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but he should be able to do better than this—this tense chasm between them, full of apprehension and loaded silences.

Dean wishes he knew the right thing to do. Hell, he wishes he could be sure there even _is_ a ‘right’ thing to do. He sets his mug down, the last dregs of honeyed tea sloshing around the bottom, and folds his hands loosely on the table.

“I noticed that…” Sam says, nodding his chin in the direction of Dean’s mug, “earlier.”

Dean looks curiously at the mug but doesn’t see anything special about it.

Sam leans forward and gently takes Dean’s left hand, warm touch guiding more than grabbing, flipping it palm up to expose the deep scars forever marring his skin. It’s too dim to see all the details, and Sam squints at it, turning Dean’s hand this way and that to catch the light. Dean lets him.

“It’s a devil’s trap,” Dean admits, only a little self-conscious.

Sam’s forehead is pulled up in a familiar thoughtful furrow, his eyes flicking to Dean’s face. “What’s it do?”

“It, uh, traps demons.”

Sammy’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “Why the hell would you want a demon trapped in your hand? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Dean’s scoff slips out; his whole life is dangerous. “It’s easier than having to paint a trap—lets me improvise.”

“Improvise,” Sam repeats the word with a frown of obvious disapproval. “With _demons_.”

Dean smirks indulgently, finding Sam’s concern entertaining; it’s been years since he’s had anyone try to mother him like this. Sammy was always good for that: chiding Dean for every injury and unnecessary risk.

“Somebody’s gotta exorcise the bastards,” Dean shrugs insouciantly, attempting to take his hand away.

Sam’s grip tightens.

He doesn’t let go, pulling Dean’s hand back across the table towards himself, head bowed for a closer look. Dean sits with his arm fully extended, itchy with nerves but compliant; he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to bring himself to pull away from Sam, no matter how weird the kid is. Dean sucks in a quiet, shuddering inhale at the electric sensation of Sam’s fingertips delicately tracing the intricate shapes, barely touching, hovering a scant millimeter above Dean’s palm. The touch is too much, overwhelming; he curls in his fingers protectively.

Sam lifts his head, colorless eyes caught in a stream of light from the window. He must see something on Dean’s face because he lets go. Dean sits back in his chair with his hands in his lap, knowing this is the start of another awkward silence, another half-finished conversation. He vacillates, biting the inside of his lip, before making a decision.

He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt. “We thought that’s what took you: a demon,” he explains conspiratorially, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the tattooed exorcism, the elegant loops of Latin looking somehow severe, dark black ink on pale skin. Sam looks shocked, but more than anything, he looks intrigued, leaning forward again and cocking his head to read the words.

“Dad and me,” Dean continues, “we started hunting them. Demons. Seems like there’s more of them every year, like… like something’s happening, but we don’t know what.”

Sam is mouthing the Latin as he reads, heedlessly grabbing onto Dean’s forearm. “This is an exorcism,” he says, breathless. “Why—”

“Only takes one time facin’ a demon without your Bible, makes you never wanna get caught with your pants down again,” Dean answers, subtly wincing at his own word choice. He’s always too quick to speak around Sam, forgets how to filter his thoughts.

Sam is unfazed, fixated on following the script permanently stained into Dean’s skin. Sammy is clearly fascinated and Dean wonders for the first time if he’ll ever want to get back into hunting. With the way he handled Sheriff Donna, Dean can tell his little brother is still at least somewhat capable. Then again, Sam loved lore more than he’d ever liked the dirty work, and suddenly Dean doesn’t know what life will be like in the future. Hunts will come up, like they always do, and Dean will have to go. At the same time, he doesn’t want to leave Sam anywhere, doesn’t trust anyone but himself to protect him.

“We could get you one…” Dean whispers timidly.

Sammy’s head snaps up, emotions flashing across his eyes that Dean’s not fast enough to read. Sam’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, a scritching, strangled sound escaping his constricted throat. The first recognizable word he manages is, “ _Uh…”_

“Nevermind,” Dean tries to backtrack, jolting back into his chair, severing their connection and leaving Sam’s hands empty, outstretched between them. “Sorry. Of course you don’t want to—”

“No, it’s just—” Sam starts, cutting off with a burst of laughter that sounds just on the edge of hysteria. “Wow, I didn’t even think of that. Hunting again.” He holds his face in his hands, eyes studying the wood grain of the table. “Wow,” he whispers to himself once more.

Dean waits, not wanting to pressure Sammy into a decision. Dean has a knee-jerk protective instinct that really doesn’t even want Sam to hunt, that knows he’ll be distracted and worried constantly if he has Sam with him in the line of fire. But hunting is their family business, and Sam is _family_ in every sense of the word. What scares him most is the idea that Sam will want to find a place and settle down, because Dean’s already knows he’s no good at that life. One try was enough.

But he can’t leave the kid, and Dean feels like his whole life is hinged on Sam’s decision here. So he keeps his fucking mouth shut and waits.

When Sam finally looks up, his eyes are still bewildered, like a spooked horse. “Do you think I’m even capable of that? Like… you think I’ll be able to?”

Dean bites on the inside of his lip with reluctance, but he manages to mutter, “Pretty sure you’ve got to be the one to decide that, kid.”

Sam looks even more off balance then, the weight of being responsible for his own destiny settling on him like a heavy burden. This is the most serious Dean’s seen Sam since he found him and it feels like getting a glimpse behind the curtain, straight to the heart of the issue, the parts of Sam that have changed.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do, Sam,” Dean adds softly, hoping it helps the kid to hear it out loud. “No one is.”

“Dad.” Sam croaks the word.

Dean scowls at the thought, “Not even him.” He’s not actually sure how Dad will react, but he’s not about to let Sam trade in literal slavery for the figurative kind. “I told you before: you can have whatever, _do_ whatever you want.” It’s still promising too much, but Dean’s still committed to fulfilling it.

He stands from his chair, gathering the empty mugs from the table. He rinses them out and puts them on the drainboard, drying his hands absently on the towel hanging from the handle on Bobby’s oven. When he turns back, Sam is sitting exactly where he left him, looking no closer to a decision than before.

Dean sets a warm hand on the nape of Sam’s neck, where his thick hair curls up, as silken soft and unruly as ever. He never could bring himself to cut these curls.  “Just… think about it,” Dean whispers, trying for comfort and encouragement. He knows this has got to be hard for Sam. “Whatever you decide, I’ll back your play.”

For a moment it seems like Sam hasn’t even heard him, but then Dean feels the teen nod, those soft curls tickling over his knuckles. Dean holds tight for another second before letting his hand fall away.

“‘M gonna go grab a smoke,” Dean says. “Be back in a minute.”

“‘Kay.”

Dean leaves Sam in silence at the kitchen table and slips out the back door. It’s as quiet outside as in, not even crickets this time of year. The wind is bracing but there’s no city smell, just the fresh air of the country and the usual rusty metal and damp gravel scent of Singer Salvage. He goes to the Impala and grabs his leather jacket from the backseat where he’d tossed it carelessly yesterday. His cell phone is in the breast pocket, exactly where he left it.

He’s put this off long enough.

Dean carefully watches the curtains hanging over Bobby’s darkened windows, but sees no sign of Sammy. To be safe, he decides to take a short walk through the maze of junker cars towered high through Bobby’s scrap yard.

He doesn’t hesitate before scrolling through his contacts to the name _‘Jeff Morgan’_ and hitting call. Dean knows he’s not going to answer. Dad’s been buried in demon hunting for weeks. They’ve been playing telephone tag, leaving each other messages every so often, but they haven’t spoken directly in months. Hell, Dean’s the one that calls most often; Dad’s only left him five messages all year. Dean listens to the purr of the dial tone, waiting for the fourth ring and the robotic voice that will tell him this number is unavailable, and to please leave his message after the tone.

 _‘Hello?’_ a raspy baritone says into his ear.

“Dad?” Dean squeaks in disbelief.

 _‘Dean?’_ John asks, sounding more awake now. _‘What’s wrong?’_

“I, uh…” —wow, really did not expect you to answer— “Just callin’ to check in,” Dean says on automatic.

John sighs once. _‘Yeah, been a few weeks. You take care of that vengeful Bobby gave you?’_

Dean sighs too; trust Dad to keep up on what he’s doing through _Bobby_ rather than call Dean directly. “Yeah, but um, listen. There’s something important. You in a secure spot?”

 _‘Wait,’_ is all Dad says and Dean lets his head fall back dramatically, rolling his eyes up at the moon, as he listens to shuffling sounds over the line. There’s a distant creak and slam, probably getting into his truck.

“Dad?” Dean asks, but receives no reply, just more noise. “Come on,” Dean grits lowly, caught somewhere between annoyance and intense nervousness. He’s jittery with it, caught off guard by his Dad on the phone and trying to think of a way to explain without saying too much. He’s not sure what he should say, what he should save for Sam to say, how to even _start_.

 _‘Alright,’_ Dad grumbles finally. _‘What’s going on?’_

Dean’s mouth opens but nothing comes out; after all the talking he’s done in the last few days, this is where he finds himself speechless. He coughs and tries again, but still nothing. He pulls the phone away from his ear and rubs a hand over his face, muttering a heartfelt “Fuck.” He paces, taking a few breaths, and when he lifts the phone again, catches the tail end of Dad talking.

_‘—fucking games on the phone. Now either tell me what the hell is goin’ on, or I’m hanging up. I don’t have time for your—’_

“Sam’s alive,” Dean blurts. Dad goes immediately silent. “He’s alive, Dad. I found him.”

There’s a pause of maybe three seconds before Dean hears the roar of his father’s engine and a harsh bark of, _**'Where?'**_

“Bobby’s place,” Dean answers. Before he can say anything more, the line goes dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh. Here comes John Winchester.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave a kudo if you enjoyed it?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments so far. You all rock!
> 
> Any comments, critiques, speculation about future chapters, or gibberish, emotional keyboard slamming are greatly appreciated!


	6. Announcement

I want to apologize to all my readers who were eagerly looking forward to today's chapter, especially after last week's cliffhanger. Unfortunately, I've been quite ill for the last few days and ended up in the hospital. I'm not quite out of the woods, but I'm at least back home and resting with my family. I know this post is a disappointment, but your comments have been so heartfelt and enthusiastic that it didn't seem fair to miss update day without a little explanation.

Thank you all for your patience and support. The next chapter will be posted soon. 

-VampieOreo


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long hiatus is over! Thank you to everyone who was so supportive while I took time to get my health in order. Your comments warmed my heart! <3
> 
> To make up for the very long wait, this chapter is twice as long as usual. After this, I'll be back to a regular updating schedule.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

Chapter 6

  


It takes just over twelve hours before the guttural roar of Dad's V8 heralds his arrival.

The moment he hears it, Dean internally kisses all the peaceful quiet they've maintained goodbye. Neither Bobby nor Dean has been all that pushy about questions, and Sam hasn't been forthcoming, but there's no way Dad will accept that. John Winchester is a man of action and answers; there's no mystery he leaves unsolved and no question he leaves unasked, no matter who he has to piss off to do it. And Dean knows that as horrifying as finding Sam at that auction was, it'll be nothing compared to how his Dad will feel when he finds out.

Sammy is his brother, his everything, but Dean's been told all his life that there's something special about parenthood, something he won't understand unless he decides to have a few rugrats of his own. He's not ever going to; unlike his Dad, Dean's happy to leave some mysteries unexplored. But the way he feels about Sammy—the protectiveness and constant worry and endless affection he has for the kid—is enough that Dean thinks maybe he gets the gist of what parenthood is like. That still means that as much as it kills Dean to think about Sam with those vile perverts, it'll be twice as bad for his father. And Dad only reacts to pain one way: finding the cause and fucking _killing_ it.

Sammy, who'd been sipping at an ice-cold glass of water and lounging on the couch beneath the window in the main room, sits up ramrod straight at the sound of the truck. His eyes go wide, abandoning the humming television and searching for Dean. Dean's already standing in the archway between Bobby's living room and the kitchen, an old _AutoTrader_ left open on the table behind him.

They hear the engine cut out and, a scant ten seconds later, pounding at the front entrance, hard enough to shake the sturdy door in its frame. “Singer! Open up!” his voice calls, as loud and obnoxious as when Dean had done the same yesterday.

Bobby lifts the remote to turn off the TV, drops it clatter onto his desk, and grumpily heads for the door.

Sam has gone white as a sheet, eyes wide and scared like a cornered animal. Dean wants to say something reassuring, but he doesn't have time. The front door slams hard against the wall and they can hear Bobby cursing, “Damn it, Winchester!” followed by the frantic pace of heavy boot steps approaching until they reach the threshold of the living room.

John Winchester looks haggard, unshaven and rumpled, jeans covered in rusty stains from his latest hunt. He's got some serious bedhead and his boots are barely laced—the overall image is shocking, if only to Dean. His Dad is military efficient in everything he does. Dean doesn't think he's seen him this unkempt since Sam went missing in the first place. He has to remind himself to close his hanging jaw and school his expression into something neutral.

It doesn't matter, because Dad's not looking at Dean. Not at all.

The ferocious intent on Dad's face melts away the second he spots Sam. The teen is frozen solid on the couch, every line of him tense like he can't decide between staying still or running like Hell is after him.

“Sammy,” Dad says, like an epiphany.

Something snaps the tension, because Sam is up off the couch in an instant. Not running away, but running toward their father, choking out a hoarse, _“Dad.”_

Dad meets Sam halfway, their arms clapping around each other so forcefully it's audible. Dean looks down at the ground, uncomfortable with the display. Not that he hasn't longed to see this, the reunion of their family, but he always felt a little out of place when Dad was concentrated on Sammy. It's like he's the third wheel or something. He's not sure what he should do: give them a minute alone, try to wait it out, or maybe join in? None of them seem like good ideas, so he stands in limbo, only watching his father and brother in his periphery.

The hug doesn't last all that long, Dad pulling away and holding Sam's face so he can look at him. “Are you alright?” he asks, and when Sam doesn't answer fast enough, Dad repeats it, louder.

“Yeah, Dad, I'm fine,” Sam replies, patiently allowing Dad to check him over.

Dean thinks that's a pretty big lie, considering how not fine Sam's been acting. His little brother has been jittery most of the day, follows Dean like a lost lamb, only eats if coerced, only speaks if spoken to. Dean hopes it's all in his own head—maybe Sam really is fine and Dean's the one misreading everything. Maybe this is just the normal way Sammy has changed as he's grown up. He hopes that, but he doesn't believe it; Dean's never been an optimist.

“Where the hell were you, son?” Dad asks, shaking Sam by his shoulders. “We searched everywhere, nonstop.”

Dean doesn't call out that lie, either.

“I-I, umm…” Sammy stutters “it's a long story.”

“Do I look like I got anywhere else to be?” Dad persists. “What happened, Sammy? It was like you went up in a puff of smoke.”

Sam is stammering out half words, and Dean can't help interrupting. “Hey, Dad, why don't we all sit down first, then catch up.”

The look Dad shoots at him is incomprehension, but it comes across as anger. Dean doesn't take it personally; a lot of Dad's expressions are that way. John doesn't like to sit down for bad news; he likes to take it on his feet, so he can do something about it. But this isn't just bad news: it's heartbreaking, life-shattering news. Dean still can't predict what his Dad's reaction will be, but he's reasonably sure it won't be pretty.

“Dean,” Dad says, like he's just now noticed he's here. “And how long exactly have you had your brother back? How long before you bothered to call me?”

Dean shuts his mouth up tight, sickened at the thought of having to recount Sam's rescue. It won't be like with Bobby or Sam; Dean will have to spill every gory detail to his father and he doesn't want to talk about it—not Ezra, not Dimitri, not Bela Lugosi, none of it. Somehow, his Dad always knows exactly which question Dean wants to avoid most.

“Sit the hell down with your sons, John,” Bobby interrupts with a grumble as he crowds past Dad's imposing bulk into the room. “And _don't—”_ Bobby continues, eyes narrowed, “you dare argue with me in my own damn house.”

Dad pulls a face, but holds his tongue; Dean can't tell if it's out of respect to Bobby or because it's the path of least resistance, but the result is the same. There's a heartbeat of macho posturing as Dad glares, silently telling Bobby he doesn't appreciate being ordered around, before he relents. Dad guides Sam back to the couch and sits him down—surreal to see that they're the same height now—and the kid goes obediently. Dad parks his ass on the edge of Bobby's desk, as close to sitting down as he's gonna get, and the ominous set of his jaw dares anyone to call him out on it.

Nobody is quite that dumb.

Dean snags a kitchen chair and drags it over, cutting the silence as the feet screech on the scuffed wood before he pulls it up onto the rug. He plops down into it, trying for all he's worth to look nonchalant about this whole thing, but he's sweating bullets and there's no way Dad hasn't noticed.

Bobby's got on his surliest frown, but spares a kind glance to Dean and a head nod—like he's saying, _'I'm trusting you with this,'_ and Dean gets it, nods back imperceptibly. “I'm gonna give y'all some time as a family,” Bobby says, then levels Dad with a scowl. “But I swear to Christ, Winchester. If you break another thing in my goddamn house, I'm pullin' out my twelve-gauge.”

The threat has Sam and Dean glancing at each other with secret amusement, and the old man turns and leaves too quickly for Dad to reply with more than a sarcastic scoff at his back. The small dose of levity drains away as soon as Bobby's gone, and the clatter of the screen door swinging shut behind him is as loud as the pine lid of a coffin. The metaphor seems all the more fitting as dead silence falls over the three Winchesters. Sam's not looking up anymore, sitting hunched with his elbows on his knees, staring down at his clasped hands. Dean bites the inside of his bottom lip, wondering if he should start. Even after hours of trying to find the words, he can't get a hold of them, every possible explanation sounding stupid inside his own head.

“So, fine. I'm sittin' down,” John beats him to the punch. “Now you two start explainin' this to me. Where were you, Sam? What did you see?”

Sam squints up from under his hair, confused at the phrasing, but he clears his throat and starts talking. He tells the same story he told Dean, about the friend from school, the arcade, stopping by his house, drinking soda he didn't see poured. Sam hits every point, doesn't miss a single detail, his story identical to the time he'd told it before. Dad winces in disappointment in all the appropriate places, questions thrown like barbs before Sam can even finish his sentences, interrogating him the same way he does witnesses. Dean can't blame Dad, really; it's almost second nature to them now.

“Never saw Reuben again,” Sam concludes. “I was tied up in the back of a van and they just kept driving.”

“How long?” Dad asks—trying to estimate distance, Dean is sure.

Sam shrugs, “More than a day. Couple bathroom stops in the middle of nowhere. Couple of gas station stops maybe, but I was still really out of it for most of the ride.”

“Where'd you finally end up?” Dad asks, and here is where Dean perks up, listening closely for the answer.

He hadn't been able to question Sam the way he wanted, not in public at a gas station, and not since they've been at Bobby's. It seemed cruel to bring it up, because Dean already knows where Sam landed eventually. But he wants to know more: names, dates, locations. The longer he lets the amorphous nightmares hover outside his thoughts, the more it feels like a hammer waiting to fall. Dean's ready for answers and he trusts Dad to pry them out of Sammy faster and better than he ever could.

Sam expression wavers, a frown like a stomachache, before he replies, “Umm, I don't know for sure. It was somewhere southwest, probably close to the Mexican border, from the length of the drive and the landscape, and it was hotter than hell. They forced me out into some kinda barn. I mean, I didn't _see_ it—they had me blindfolded, but I could tell from the smell and the feeling of walking on hay. Once we were inside, they untied me; it was dark but I saw a bunch of other kids—girls, mostly. There were a couple of big guys standing around, but the one in front of me had a pistol on his thigh, so I fought him—you know, trying to get the gun.

“Didn't count on somebody having a cattle prod. That brought me down real fast. They tied me up again, kept saying they had to keep an eye on me.”

The way Sam talks is nearly as disturbing as the content. Not because he's teary eyed or emotional, but because he's _not._ He's calm as a sunny day, recalling the events like he's just laying all the pieces of the puzzle out, one after another. Dean's trained in body language, knows how to interrogate trauma victims, and Sam is one step past trauma. He's into full-on detachment. It's like he's not even hearing what he's saying. But with their job and the way Dad trained them, Dean can't tell if it's just Sam trying to be as professional as he can.

How else do you tell your family a story like this? What other way is there to do it except to get it out as efficiently as possible?

“We were there for maybe two hours,” Sam continues, “before they started letting in groups of guys, men. They'd walk up and down the barn, point out a girl they wanted and negotiate quietly, mostly in Spanish so I didn't catch a lot of it. A lot of them walked by me and stared. I was the only one tied up, hogtied on my knees, gagged 'cause I spit on one of the assholes who took me down. I didn't really know what they were doing, but I figured it was some kind of prostitution thing, so I tried to look as unappealing as I could, like I'd kill the first bastard to touch me.

“Seemed to work, 'cause they left me alone. Then—”

Sam cuts off, a faint scowl of something like disgust on his lips and a sliver of fear showing through his shifty eyes.

Dad's face is pinched, his uneasiness nearly identical to hostility, arms crossed over his chest, impatiently waiting for the moment Sam tells him about his successful escape. Dean knows that moment isn't coming, but Dad doesn't, yet. “Then what, Sam?” he prompts.

Sam breathes in and bravely meets Dad's eyes. “Z. That's when I met Z.

“I don't know his real name—nobody does. He was dressed like… like a bodyguard. Professional, all in black, black leather gloves even, like a hitman, except no visible weapons on him. I guess, at the time, I thought he was just a limo driver or something, tryin'a get his rocks off with the Mexican girls smuggled over the border. He saw me and—” Sam falters again, looks back down at the ground. “I don't know. He picked me.”

“Less than an hour later, the guys led me out to Z with a couple other girls, one other boy—four of us. They untied me, but shoved me in the very back row of a black SUV—”

“Make and model?” Dad talks right over Sam, doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it.

“Oh um, it was a Chevy. Suburban, I think, but it was dark—don’t think I could guess the year. I think it was armored, though. ‘Cause I tried kicking out a window, but… But Z just laughed at me from the driver's seat. I didn't make a dent, in over an hour. We drove for a while—”

“How long?” Dad asks testily.

Sam's nose scrunches, trying to recall. “I think maybe two or three hours. Not long.”

“You see any road signs?”

“The back windows were tinted dark, but I caught a few of the big ones. We were in Texas.”

“City?”

“I don't know,” Sam helplessly shrugs.

Dad closes his eyes briefly in annoyance, shifts on his seat as he settles in, ready to cut to the chase. “So where'd they take you?”

"I could see from the window we were pulling up at an airport—”

“So you ran to security,” Dad says, and it's not a question. It's an expectation, and Dean can see the way Sam's face pinches in chagrin.

“Yeah, I thought that too. But we didn't go through security—”

“How the hell did you skip security?” Dad demands abruptly.

Sam looks down and takes one calming breath before he starts again, louder like he's trying not to be interrupted. “I don't know why, but Z was able to pull up right on the tarmac. There was like—a small passenger plane waiting, and a couple other cars—two more guys like Z, one of them had two girls with him, the other had three—two girls and a boy. They were already boarding. I thought, if they weren't gonna take us into the airport, then as soon as they let me out I'd just make a run for it.

“But before he unlocked any of the doors, Z turned around and told all of us that if we made a scene, if we screamed or ran or tried anything at all, we'd regret it. He said… He said, _'you might even regret being born.'_ Everybody else looked terrified, and this girl—younger than me—she started crying. Z told her she had ten seconds to stop before he _made_ her stop.

“Before that, I wasn't even sure she spoke English, but she shut up pretty quick.

“So Z got out and opened one of the doors, started letting everybody out. I was the only one in the back, so I was last. He grabbed me by the arm, hard, even though the other kids were just walking free. He was trying to take us onto the plane, or like private jet. I dunno—it was small, 15-seater, but not fancy or anythin', nondescript.

“So I'm lookin' around to try and find anyone that's not working with these guys, but we're way far away from any other planes. The airport wasn't that big and it was about 300 yards back, didn't think I could make it all the way there without Z stopping me. But there was one guy fueling the plane, had a small fuel truck and he was wearing a reflective vest. So I waited 'til we were about to pass him, the other kids already walking up the steps onto the plane. Then I broke Z’s hold, socked him in the face, gave him a solid kick to the crotch, and ran for it.

“I went right up to the guy,” Sam says, emotion bleeding into his calm voice, a hint of the desperation he must've felt. “I grabbed him by his vest and said, _'I'm fifteen and they're kidnapping me. You have to help me.'_ And he just…” Sam shakes his head at the ground before looking up and there's bitterness on his face but mostly, disbelief. Like he still doesn't really understand. “He just… stared at me.”

"And I shook him hard, repeated myself. Told him to get me the hell out of there. To call the police.” Sam lets out an angry scoff. “And the guy just _stared_ at me. Like I was speaking Latin.

“Next thing I know, Z's hand is on the back of my neck and he pinches a pressure point I didn't even know about; it brought me down to my knees, felt like I was gonna faint. He grabbed me in a reverse chokehold and basically dragged me up onto the plane. And nobody—” Sam lets out a shuddering sigh, trying to compose himself. “Nobody did anything.”

Sam goes quiet for a minute, gaze hazy like he's caught in the memory.

Dad looks frustrated, brings a hand up to rub tiredly at his eyes. “So then what, Sam?”

Sam keeps talking, focused on the far wall, “I fought like hell. Struggled the whole way, but he shoved me into a seat in the back, then slammed my head into the window. Maybe I blacked out or—I don't know. But when I came to, it was a couple minutes later at least, and he's got my hands cuffed in front of me, connected to a chain around my waist. And I could feel him cuffing my ankles, so I tried to kick him but I didn't have the space. He laughed at me again. Said—”

Sam’s voice cuts out, eyes flicking up once to meet Dad's. “Doesn't matter,” Sam shakes his head. “He was just trying to scare me.”

“What'd he say?” Dad asks and Dean frowns at him. Dad's smart enough to know that if Sam says it doesn't matter, then it doesn't. But he's stubborn enough to want to know anyway, to need as much detail as he can get.

Sam grimaces, lip curled up like he's smelling something bad. “He… He said I was a fighter. Said I'd better quit now, 'cause there were people who'd pay a lot to beat me into submission.”

Direct quote, Dean thinks. It has to be. Because there's no way Sam would ever phrase it like that.

Dad's frown becomes even more severe. “The plane take off?”

Sam nods his head at the ground, scuffing his socked toes on Bobby's old rug. “Headed southeast, from the angle of the sun. I was all the way in the back, Z sittin' next to me, but I got a window seat. We were mostly over the ocean, for hours. Maybe four or so. I started seeing land, but I didn't know where we were. Outside of the US for sure.”

Dad grunts, “So you land at another airport.”

“No,” Sam shakes his head. “Just a runway. There were a few small buildings, some fences, but not what anyone'd call an airport. After we landed they took us right off the plane, two more SUVs waiting for us. The two other guards and their five kids all got into one of the SUVs together. Z packed the same four of us up into the other one, put me in the back again. Still chained up.”

Sam's knee starts bouncing and he's no longer glancing up at either of them, concentration locked on Bobby's faded rug. “They, um… we drove for a little bit, following the other SUV, maybe forty minutes. Then we pulled up at this—this _mansion.”_

Dean swallows thickly, able to guess what comes next.

“It looked like the hotel from The Shining, like this huge estate. Had to have a hundred rooms, or more. And I thought, maybe I'd have another chance to find a phone, a worker, somebody. But…but we didn't even pull around back. Z parked right in front of the main fucking entrance. He started pullin' the kids out, no warning about behaving this time. He grabbed me out and I tripped on the cuffs, but he just let me fall; they laughed again, Z and his buddies from the other car. Dragged me to my feet and up the stairs to the… t-the big doors,” he finishes in a hush.

Sam is fidgeting, almost twitchy with it, won't look up for anything.

“Then what?” Dad prompts.

Sam doesn't answer. His hair swings in a minute shake of his head.

“Sam,” Dad snaps, loud and commanding, but the kid doesn't even jump. He just sits there.

Dad's getting restless, antsy. He's not dumb. Actually, he's the smartest man Dean's ever known. Dad knows what this sounds like, knows better than anyone how out of their league they are. This wasn't done by monsters or demons, but _people:_ the worst kind of enemy the world has to offer. The kind that even the Winchesters aren't strong enough to fight. Dad can read Sam's demeanor, must know they've come to the end of what he's willing to share, the end of the information Sam believes to be useful.

Dad stands up, his presence arresting, his voice deep and compelling. “Sam, whatever you're afraid of saying, don't be. Just tell the truth, and we'll figure it out from there. You know how this works; we gotta know everything.”

Sam lifts his head and his face is ashen pale, set into an expression Dean's never seen. Eyes glazed, just enough to dampen his lashes, but it's not tears—he's not crying. Sam's face is dead, emotionlessly solemn.

“You don't want to know,” Sam says in a soft monotone, his unfamiliar deep voice terrifying in its certainty.

Sam voice may be softer but it leaves Dean more shaken than his father's shouts ever have. He looks to his Dad, not sure what happens next—if they'll push for more or leave it at that. He sees the moment Dad realizes what Sam means, how bad it must be that Sam thinks they won't be able to stomach a retelling. Dad takes a step back and horror settles over him, subtle but recognizable to Dean. He's seen that look on his Dad before.

“When did you leave?” Dad grunts, voice strangled with dread.

Sam face flickers, considering. “About a week later. A guy bought me; got shipped to his house.”

“A guy _bought—”_ Dad starts, incredulous before he cuts himself off.

Suddenly Dad starts laughing and Dean's eyes widen in shock. His father looks unnerved—angry, hysterical laughter barking out of his throat, like all he can do right now is hope this is one big joke. Sam is equally unsettled by Dad's reaction, looking to Dean for guidance, silently asking, _'what the hell?'_ Dean doesn't know what to do.

“This is so fucking absurd,” Dad gasps thickly, but his skin is drained of color and his eyes are wild. “Dean, tell me this didn't—tell me what happened.”

Dean doesn't get the luxury of doubt, saw the horrors firsthand, knows every word Sam said is the truth. Turns out, he doesn't have to say that aloud. Dad takes one look at him and knows.

His laughter dies as quickly as it came.

This time, when Dad looks mad, it's because he actually is. “You tellin' me, all this time, you've just been with some guy? That you, what? Couldn't fight off a regular goddamn _human,_ Sam!”

“Dad,” Dean says, a warning, a plea for mercy. Sam’s face has drained of color.

“No!” Dad raises his voice, won't be silenced. He takes a step toward Sam, eyes blazing, pointing a finger. “You mean in _four fucking years_ you couldn't fight your way to a fucking phone even once! You couldn't—”

Dean stands up and gets between them, facing his father. “Dad, stop it,” Dean says, and his voice comes out mild, calm and placating. Seeing Dad like this always sucks every ounce of anger out of Dean, like Dad has enough for the both of them.

John looks livid, but Dean can see that underneath, he's scared. His father doesn't even look at him, gaze set over Dean's shoulder on Sam. Dad lifts a shaking hand to wipe over his mouth before turning on his heel and stomping away. The front door swings open with a squeak and slams shut hard enough that the whole house trembles.

Dean feels overcome in that moment, face clenched up as he tries not to cry. Everything is all wrong--everything about this is the worst thing he's ever felt. Dealing with this, with their fucked up little family, is the only thing that Dean's ever seen make his father turn tail and run. Way down deep, Dean feels the same urge—to get away from this agonizing truth, to escape his guilt, his duty. But like a sixth sense he can't shut off, he's still aware of his little brother's presence behind him.

Dean can't leave Sam. Not ever again, not even if it kills him.

He gives himself a few seconds, to get his shit together, before turning around to see Sammy. Sam looks right up at him, eyes the murky, tumultuous color of a tornado, tears streaming freely down his plaintive face. He looks so much like the little boy Dean remembers, that same teary eyes after a nightmare asking, _'please, make the monsters go away.'_

Dean's usually good at killing monsters, but he doesn't know how this time. He doesn't even know what to kill, where to aim, and he feels painfully impotent.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers raggedly.

Sam shakes his head violently, curling inward with his head bowed, so Dean's left looking at the cowlicked swirl of hair at his crown. His whole body seems shrunken down in misery, like he's back to being a pint-sized kid. Dean steps forward cautiously, so Sam can hear him approach. He gingerly alights on the couch beside his brother, but the sagging cushion dips from his added weight, leaning them together and jostling Sammy.

“I _did_ fight,” Sam says wetly, voice roughened with intensity. “I didn't just _let—”_ He looks up then, piercing Dean with a vehement stare. “I fought, _every_ step of the way. …You'd be proud.”

Dean stares back, aghast; there's so much conviction in Sammy's glossed, detached gaze, tears clinging to his clumped lashes. Dean sees something in his brother's eyes that reminds him of a demon, of the way their inky, unearthly stare is entirely unhinged from humanity. There is nothing about this that could make Dean feel pride, and as he looks into Sammy's deranged eyes, he has the first terrifying doubt in his brother's sanity.

After a few seconds, all Dean can manage is a dumbfounded nod through his nauseous gutpunch of horror.

The sudden roar of Dad's engine makes both of them look towards the door, and at least the sinking feeling of disappointment and abandonment takes care of his urge to chuck. That fucking bastard, Dean thinks but doesn't manage to say.

Sam's jaw quivers as they listen to the truck revving hard and peeling out of the gravel drive, its guttural hum dissipating as Dad floors it down the old road. It's only a beat of silence before Sam collapses in on himself, pressing his forehead to his knees and folding his arms around his face. Dean doesn't need to know body language to recognize heartbreak.

He reaches a hand up and carefully sets it on Sam's back, feeling his hitching, heavy breaths, his strong bones, his living warmth. Sam doesn't react. The feeling of inadequacy sinks even deeper into Dean's marrow.

“Sammy,” Dean tries again, but then he doesn't know what to say next.

Way back when, back in the days when Sam and Dad would fight over far simpler things, Dean would always assure his brother: _'He doesn't mean it. He's not mad, he's scared for you. He's not pissed off, he just wants you to be safe. He's trying his best, Sammy. He'll come back;_ **_of course_** _he'll come back.'_ It's true this time too, that Dad is probably steeped in guilt for not saving his son, for finding out that all the time they've spent chasing demons was nothing but a waste. Dad can't accept that all the things they sacrificed, all the lessons and training they forced into Sam's head, somehow didn't matter when disaster struck.

Dean understands parenthood enough to know Dad doesn't blame Sam; he blames himself, and it takes a minute to adjust to the weight of that kind of absolute failure.

But Dean understands being a brother too. He knows there's no amount of justification that will take Sam's hurt away. Actually, any word in Dad's defense would just make it worse.

“It's okay,” is what Dean finally says, the words scraping out of his raw, dry throat like razor wire. He rubs his hand up and down Sam's back, the way he did after nightmares, hoping futilely that it's still enough. “It's okay.”

Sammy apparently hasn't forgotten what it means to be a Winchester. He doesn't call out Dean's lie either.

 

Xx--XxX--xX

 

John Winchester has seen Hell.

He saw it first as a young man, came face to face with a blood-drenched, hungry, violent, lonely war; War _is_ Hell, he learned, and that's not a metaphor.

He saw it again the night his wife, his beautiful girl bursting with life and love, burned up to nothing before his eyes. He saw it in Dean's broken spirit the instant they realized Sammy was truly missing and at the bottom of a bottle every bleak night that passed since, his little boy still lost.

John has defeated literal demons and the figurative kind too, the ones that can't be stopped by rock salt or holy water, that follow you down into your dreams, snatch ahold of your heart and _don't let go._ He's killed every kind of belly-to-the-ground, nasty, slimy sonuvabitch he could find, stared into the face of death as he burned up the enraged remnants of human souls, touched the edge of insanity—running and bleeding, no rest, two precious boys in his backseat to protect, not a friend in the world to help him—and never let it swallow him down.

This.

This is worse.

Even confronting the idea that—that Sammy was—

John has spent what feels like an eternity chasing down the demons responsible for Mary's death, and he's only just begun to uncover the truth. What happened to his family wasn't chance—not like the whim of a Wendigo or the aimless violence of a werewolf. There was _premeditation_ in their tragedy: something came after them for a reason, and John's been doggedly trying to unravel the mystery ever since.

It wasn't until four years ago that he finally had opportunity. Before that, it seemed like the demonic bastards had been in hibernation, the front as quiet as a tomb, barely a single exorcism a year. Then a there was a flood of them in the months following Sam's disappearance. New demons popped up every few weeks, demons of the old world, succubi and imps, cambions and beriths—things hunters haven't seen since the days when their biggest worry was the Black Plague. Powerful witches began to surface, some centuries old and others made brand new. Dumb teens and bored spinsters have been toying around with ancient books for decades, repeating gibberish chants for a cheap thrill, but it wasn't until a few years ago that the immense forces to which they unknowingly offered their souls started to _listen._

John may believe in a lot of things, but coincidence isn't one of them. Sammy going missing and demon activity skyrocketing out of nowhere had to be connected.

The further he dug, the more John began to suspect that maybe the demon that attacked their family all those years ago wasn't actually after Mary specifically. Maybe the demon has a grudge against their family; maybe it's something about Winchester blood. He's still struggling to fit those puzzle pieces together, but he'd thought as soon as he figured out the motive, he'd be able to find his son.

So he's interrogated and exorcised, tracked and trapped every damned demon he could get his hands on. He was so _sure._

He doesn't want to believe it could've been something as simple as a good ol' fashioned kidnapping.

John has no illusions about his shortcomings—he knows he's a flawed man, always has. But one thing he's never done is deny the dirty truth. When he realized a monster killed his wife, no matter who thought he was a raving madman, what it cost, or how much easier it would’ve been to swallow the story of an electrical fire, John chased after the truth. This is the same thing in reverse. John knows that as much as he wants to believe there were demons involved somehow—maybe they played with Sam's head, made him see a highly skilled bodyguard and a private jet when really it was nothing but putrid, black smoke—the truth is so much worse than anything he could've dreamed.

John looks up, timeworn eyes gazing wearily out his windshield. He's at a stop on the last farm road on the outskirts of town, the signs pointing him in the direction of the highway a sinfully simple temptation. Driving has always helped him to think—the repetitive, automatic movement, the easily measured progress, the wide expanse of freedom, and the trust in his machines—it frees up the clutter in his head, washes away the complications. He wants to keep going, to drive until he can't anymore.

Blank-faced, he turns his wheel and goes back into Sioux Falls, making a beeline for the nearest rundown bar.

John knows Sioux Falls well enough that it doesn't take long. The sun's already setting—nice thing about Fall, dark always comes early—when he parks his truck in the dirt lot beside the tavern. Inside the bar has gathered a moderate crowd, regulars most of them. Wizened women with thinning hair and wrinkled eyes, rough-and-tumble men drinking their cares away. He’s always felt at home in bars, and he breathes in the scent of stale tobacco and wood polish, the knotted floorboards creaking under his boots.

John grew up in places like this. After his father ran off, his mom worked whatever jobs she could to keep food in their bellies. With little skill and even less schooling, she took up waitressing in greasy diners and rowdy roadhouses. They'd moved around a bit at first, leaving Illinois to stay with his grandma in Ohio, and then his aunt in Wisconsin. They packed up and moved to live with his mother's new man in Georgia, and then again when she found a newer one in Tennessee. John remembers years of waiting around for his mom to get off shift, spinning on the barstools and shoving dimes into the jukebox. And when he got older, he started charming the ladies into buying him a drink or two; a few years later he started charming them out of more than that. He grew up scamming old drunkards at cards, earned his cash hustling pool until he was old enough to enlist.

Places like this are now the closest thing to a home he'll ever find, and he's old enough to know exactly how pathetic that sounds.

He marches right up to the bar, voice hoarser than a flooded engine as he orders a whiskey, double, neat. No use playing coy; he's here to get drunk. To drown the realization that he's failed his family in every way it's possible to fail.

When he's got his drink he takes up a seat in a shadowed booth, not wanting the attention his looks and height will get him if he sits at the bar. One woman is still eyeing him, winks when she sees him looking back. He frowns and keeps his eyes on the table in front of him after that, blindly signals the waitress to keep 'em coming.

 _Humans_ , he thinks as he swallows down the first blazing mouthful. Flesh-and-blood men took his son away from him. They tortured him, did things that John can't even start to consider, doesn't want to think about. It doesn't matter; nightmares don't ask your consent.

He's seen a lot of trauma in his day, of all different types. Seen the dark flame of madness in the eyes of broken men when they started to _enjoy_ killing, and the flat abyssal emptiness in the eyes of the ones who've lost the will to live. He’s seen the demented helplessness on the faces of men who looked down and saw in place of their strong legs nothing but a bloody, mangled mess. He's seen the heart-wrenching despair eat away the hearts of the widows they leave behind and the desperation on the faces of parents who've lost their children. He's seen in other hunters the unique brand of agony and self-hatred when a family member _becomes_ a monster that has to be put down.

There are so many ways to be hurt and not one can really be called worse than another, each their own special flavor of suffering. But there are a few he personally dislikes the most.

Hearing the screams of a mother who sees her baby's dead body or the cries of a child in pain—those two are obvious. Less obvious, but just as bad, is the gradual, soul-crushing depression of watching someone you love go slow, watching day by day as a little more of them dies.

For all the ways he's seen folks suffer, it'd be easy to think rape wouldn't even make the top ten, but that's an amateur's mistake. All it takes is one look into the eyes of a girl who's had her body taken from her, who's been violated in the most primal of ways, to see the truth. Rape turns even the toughest women back into little girls, and the hopelessness in their eyes, when they realize getting out alive doesn't mean they'll ever be the same—well, John's seen a lot, but there's little worse than that.

He's seen that look on women and teenage girls, even on a handful of men. Only once did he ever see it on a child. Ten-year-old Madeleine Harvey, back in 1989.

He'd been chasing down a vengeful spirit that was haunting a stretch of old country road; men started going missing, their trucks and cars found smashed into trees or left abandoned on the road, engine still running and doors open. John had blazed into town and started investigating. The locals reported seeing a young woman in a red dress hitchhiking, or just standing at the edge of the forest the surrounded the road. John went to comb the woods for anything strange, and only a few miles in he found the shallow grave of Rebecca Harvey. The seventeen-year-old girl had gone missing in '84 and had never been found; it was clear from the state of her corpse that she'd spent all five of those years right there.

He'd burned her bones and been on his way out of town when another man disappeared. That was the second case John had ever taken where burning the remains wasn't enough. So he'd kept digging, asking around about her life, friends, enemies, trying to find whatever kept her spirit tied there. It was then that he met her family. On paper, Carl Harvey was a widower who'd tragically lost his eldest daughter, and a single father to little Madeleine, his last remaining kin. In person, he was a mousy man with thick glasses, standoffish and cold, refusing to work with John even while he was pretending to be a detective on Rebecca's case.

So John had waited for Madeleine to walk home from school, hoping to ask her a few questions. The girl was more skittish than a cornered cat, but he calmed her down with a soft voice and show of his fake badge. She'd been a pale little thing, with strawberry blond braids hanging down on each shoulder, freckles on her nose. He asked about her sister and Madeleine only had good things to say—that her sister took care of her, was kind and loving. It was the same tune he'd heard from most people who knew Rebecca. When John asked about her father, Madeleine clammed up, fell silent. But she gave him this _look._

Scared and begging for help, but she couldn't say a word, as though her voice had been stolen from her.

Knowing he wouldn't learn anything more from her, John told Madeleine to keep on her way home and offhandedly reminded her to tell him if she heard anything about Peter Kimball, the most recent victim. Small town that it was, Madeleine had answered at a whisper, _'Becca always said he liked his girls too young.'_

That tip was all John needed to figure out the connection between Rebecca's victims: each of them had slept with a teenage girl, most consensual but some iffy enough to be coercion. Suspicion piqued, John went back to the Harvey home. One quick B&E later and he'd found the iron safe in the basement. The combination didn't take long to crack and inside there were stacks of photo albums. John remembers the hush that seemed to fall over the house as soon as the safe was opened, the way his hair had prickled up when he took one of the albums and flipped to the first page. Carl had taken pictures of Rebecca, his own daughter, posed in ways no little girl ever should be, tears on her chubby cheeks, so much abject fear on her face it was hard to look at. The albums spanned back years, starting from when Rebecca was around thirteen, though John didn't examine them close enough to be sure. He found the last of her remains, a pair of girl's underwear stiffened with rust-brown stains that Carl Harvey had saved as a keepsake.

The albums also explained why after five years, Rebecca had just gone vengeful. There was a new album, mostly empty pages, but the first few were enough to fuel John's nightmares for years. Little Madeleine, being abused the same way her sister had.

So John did the only thing he knew would end the hunt. He gave Rebecca what she wanted.

Usually, John keeps out of human crimes, doesn't think it's much his place. By most standards, he’s more of a criminal than half the folks rotting in prison, but this case was different. He could've burned the underwear right then, maybe saved Carl's sorry life. Instead John folded them back up exactly as he found them but carefully tucked them behind the safe instead of inside it. If Rebecca wasn't tied to her body anymore, than she'd be tied to her last remains and trapped by the iron of the safe. Taking them out meant she'd have free range of the house.

The police found Carl Harvey's strangled corpse in his bed the very next day.

John was subtly watching the house, waiting for the moment he could sneak back in to burn what little remained of Rebecca, to be sure her spirit was at rest. So he saw, when the police led little Madeleine out, the hollow hopelessness in her eyes. She saw him, recognized him, looked right through him. It was like she was as much a ghost as her sister.

The look in Madeleine's eyes was like another glimpse into Hell, and it haunted him longer than any of the real vengeful spirits he'd seen. Maybe it was because she was the same age as Dean at the time, but it had made John unbearably sick and angry to even think about a man hurting a child that way. Of course, he knew things like that happened. Everyone knows distantly, somewhere in the back of their head, that there are unspeakable things happening behind closed doors every day. Being confronted with it is something else.

Those pictures never fully left his memory, burned into the place where a man can't forget no matter how he tries. Rebecca's were awful but she was dead, free from her mortal coil and all the pain trapped in the photographs; her story was over and she could be at peace. It's Madeleine's photos that stuck the worst, and stain the back of his eyelids now. Not just her terror, but her resignation, her spirit so broken she wouldn't dare ask a detective for help. Now his imagination tortures him more accurately than a blade of bullet ever could, putting Sammy in Madeleine's place.

His lips tremble when he forces back another shot, and soon the alcohol has numbed him enough that the images go away. But no amount of booze will change the facts.

Today, John saw Hell in his little boy's eyes and he doesn't know what to do.

He's angry, furious, because how could a monster so seemingly benign when compared to demons and ghouls and wraiths overpower a Winchester? How had he let this happen? Where did he fall short in teaching Sam? And when did teaching him begin to outweigh protecting him?

He can't help thinking about Sam's story, the places where he could've escaped, the things John would've done differently. He can't stop thinking about all the hours he spent teaching his tiny son how to take a punch, how to break a man's hold, how to know when a gun was just a prop to scare him or a legitimate threat. He taught his boy when to run, when to stand and fight. He taught Sam how to stay alert in his environment, how to measure windows of opportunity, and how to exploit them faster than an enemy could blink. He thought he'd done enough.

The world is a scary place, a war front that only some people can see, the monsters lingering in the darkness always ready to snatch a precious life away. John had given up everything, _everything,_ to train his sons right, to keep them safe. Sometimes that meant safety over happiness, over comfort, over love. And John holds all his broken promises and whiskey-soaked regrets deep inside, for every missed holiday and birthday, for every red faced shouting match, and every time he left his sons crying when he tanned their lily-white asses for disobedience.

This wasn't what he'd ever dreamed when he settled down to have a family. John knew he wasn't a perfect man, but he thought maybe he could be okay as a father. He could at least do more than his own father ever had, maybe break the Winchester curse. He remembers a hushed conversation with Mary, sweaty from making love in the back of the Impala, humid summer air blowing through the open windows with the sounds of crickets. He'd finally agreed to start trying for a baby, and admitted to her quietly that he hoped having children would make him a better man, would give him something to fight for. He'd hoped it'd bring out the best in him, the way Mary always seemed to.

John stares at the scuffed wood in front of him blindly. He gave up that dream, of being a loving father, because what his sons really needed was someone to keep them alive. Through the drills and the sparring and the weapons training, the lost childhood and the vagabond, homeless drifting, John held onto a solitary, cold comfort that the sacrifice was worth it for their safety.

That’s gone now.

John doesn't know if he's lost his mind, if all this demon hunting has been nothing but chasing his own paranoia down into the abyss. He doesn't where they go from here, what they can do for revenge, if revenge is even what Sam wants. The only thing he's certain of is that this is all his fault.

Worse than anything, he doesn't know if his sons can forgive him, but John already knows he'll never forgive himself.

He's five whiskeys in when the jingle above the door has him looking up, the same way he has each time he hears it, even when lost in thought. This time, the figure that walks through isn't just some townie. The deceptively average man stands there scanning the room, ball cap pulled low and old coat pulled over older flannel.

“Aw shit,” John mutters reflexively. Bobby goddamn Singer.

The man spots him before John has even half a hope of escape, so he doesn't bother trying to duck his head and blend in with the shadows. Bobby comes right for him, doesn't even stop for a drink on the way. The older man takes a seat on the other side of John's booth, scooting himself in as casual as any day. John brings his glass towards himself, shielding it with a work roughened hand.

“You know,” Bobby says, “for a hunter they say can disappear faster than wind, you're awfully easy to predict.”

John glares. He's not in Bobby's house anymore and he's not about to be talked down to. Hell, maybe a fight is exactly what he needs to clear his head. “What do you want, Singer?” John cuts to the chase gruffly.

Bobby's dour gaze doesn't give him an inch of leeway. “You really gotta ask?”

No, John realizes, he doesn't. “I'm not goin' back. Not tonight.”

“'Course not,” Bobby says sarcastically. “What with your youngest son finally home after near half a decade, and your oldest teeterin' on the edge of a meltdown, clearly your services are needed more in a classy joint like this'un.” He nods his head towards John's whiskey glass.

“They don't need me there,” John argues, looking out towards the pool tables, watching some hick sink a few decent shots through the smoky haze hovering in the air.

“Oh really?” Bobby counters, and the skepticism is so heavy in his voice it's like being on the other side of a parent's lecture. “How'd'ya figure?”

John just leans back in his seat and drains his whiskey glass. Motions to the bartender for another. When he finally bothers to look back at his table partner, Bobby's face is molten with contempt.

“No really, John. If whatever thin justifications you've got rattlin' around your head are enough for you to abandon your children— _now_ of all times—then they've gotta be good enough to say out loud.”

John scowls, irritation rising. “Sam said it himself. He's not gonna—he doesn't want to talk. He told me straight to my face, whatever's goin' on, whatever— _happened.”_ His lip curls at the thought. “He said I wouldn't want to know.”

Bobby listens with a considering frown, but the silent judgment in his eyes doesn't waver. “Well,” the older man finally speaks, “way to prove him right.”

They lapse into silence, staring each other down stubbornly as the background noise of the bar overtakes their table. It's only a moment, because the waitress swings by soon after, setting down John's drink.

“Can I getcha anything?” she asks Bobby with the polite smile of a busy woman.

“Not tonight,” Singer shakes his head. “Gotta keep my wits about me.”

John rolls his eyes at the not-so-subtle message and takes a sip of his drink, caustic and bitter, slipping down his throat into his numbed belly. He's not gonna let a borderline alcoholic shame him out of the only pain medicine he's got on hand.

The waitress goes on to her other patrons and Bobby picks up right where he left off.

“And what about, Dean, huh? You been so wrapped up in your hunt that it's escaped your notice how reckless that boy's been?”

“Dean keeps his head on straight,” John argues defensively. Dean is a good soldier, growing into a good man.

Sure, Sam's loss broke him—it broke John too—and the once blinding good cheer and endless endurance in his oldest son melted into a barren wasteland of frigid smiles, black humor, and violent rage. When they hunted together, Dean was empty and aimless, would only follow orders and flat-out refused to make a single decision. The boy was using John as a crutch, an excuse not to have to think for himself. He needed freedom to make his own choices, independence to learn from his mistakes, and it's made him a better hunter. John's seen that with his own eyes and no one can tell him different.

“He's been throwin' himself at every dangerous thing he can find,” Bobby spits. “Doesn't check-in, doesn't take precaution. You know, Jim called me. Said he was worried Dean had a death wish.”

That piques John's attention. “'The fuck would he call you before me?”

“Apparently, you weren't answerin'.”

John turns his face away, not about to let Singer see an ounce of regret in his eyes. He makes a mental note to check in with the pastor next chance he gets.

“You're really gonna sit here and get sloppy drunk, aren't you?” Bobby asks in wonderment, like he expected something different.

John huffs out a humorless chuckle. “Told you that from the jump.”

Singer grits his teeth and his sagging face starts to turn red. “So that's it, huh? You just give up at the first opportunity—run with your tail between your legs because it's too much for _you?_ Let alone what your boys are goin' through.”

That's just about enough.

John slams his hand down on the table and old wood shakes, the sound enough to turn a few heads. Bobby doesn't flinch. _"Screw you._ That's the thing about old men—tons of advice, but no fuckin' answers. Yeah, I fuckin' need a second to wrap my head around—and Sam doesn't need to sit and watch me do it. Dean either. I'm not gonna lose my shit in front of my kids, Singer. 'S the last thing they need.”

Bobby remains silent, leaving a gap for John to keep spilling his tortured guts all over the place, but he's not gonna take the bait. He shuts up and swallows down more whiskey, finished with the conversation.

“What they need is a damn _father,”_ Bobby spits, words like acid. John doesn't let himself react but feels the admonition punch him in the solar plexus.

The old man gets up then, turning to walk away. John can't let that stand, lashes out in vengeance.

“You gonna go play house with sons that ain't yours, Singer?”

Bobby's hackles visibly rise up beneath his worn coat and when he turns around, the sternness and bitter fury on his face might make a lesser man apologize.

“I'm hittin' the head,” Singer says in an impressively level voice. “Not gonna leave your sorry ass unsupervised. And before you get any ideas—” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a spark plug. John's face falls, knowing immediately what that means. “You're not goin' anywhere without me.”

Singer saunters off, and maybe John's only reading smugness in his stride because he hates being one-upped.

“Fuckin' dotty ol' fool. Like I'm his goddamn kid,” he mutters under his breath as he watches Singer duck into the short hallway that leads to the bathrooms.

He doesn't have the energy to maintain his anger, the whiskey bleeding him dry, making him feel every ounce of exhaustion from the twelve-hour drive it took to get here. John hunches over his half-empty glass and morosely lifts his hand for another.

  
Xx--XxX--xX

 

 _'I found him,'_ Bobby says and Dean's slumps against the kitchen wall in relief, holding the corded phone to his chest for a second before he lifts it to his ear again.

“He still in town?”

 _'Yeah,'_ Bobby answers, over the rowdy sounds of a bar—tinny rock'n'roll and laughter and clinking glass. _'He parked his ass at the local watering hole. Plans to get himself stinkin' drunk.'_

Sounds like Dad. “You think he's comin' back? For me and Sammy?”

 _'He sure as hell better. If he does try to leave, it'll be on foot. Took a couple'a spark plugs from his engine. I'll make sure he—Hey, watch it! Can't you see I'm on the damn phone? Well,_ **_wait your turn_**. _Goddamn mangy kids…'_

Dean smiles, funny to hear Bobby scolding somebody other than himself. “You're a lifesaver, Bobby.”

 _'Damn straight,'_ he answers. _'You don't worry 'bout your Daddy. I can handle him. How's Sam?'_

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and looks towards the stairs. He can hear the shower running. It hasn't been long, just over ten minutes, but if it takes much longer Dean's gonna go and check.

“Seems okay,” Dean lies. “Just…” What's the word for it? Depressed? Dejected? Like somebody took what little hope he'd been keeping alive inside and crushed it beneath a steel-toed boot?

 _'Yeah,'_ Bobby sighs, knowing exactly what Dean means. _'Well keep a close watch.'_

“Of course.”

 _'And Dean,'_ Bobby says like a reminder, a small pause as he tries to figure what to say. _'Stay strong, kid.'_

Dean stares down at the scuffed patterns of Bobby's kitchen floor, a little ashamed. He thought he was holding it together well enough that nobody'd seen how close he is to the breaking point. “Will do,” he answers.

A brief goodbye later and he's setting the phone back in its cradle, the curly cord tangled up around itself, a mess that'd take too much of his dwindling energy to unravel. He leaves it.

He meanders around Bobby's sitting room, straightening a few lopsided piles of magazine, wiping off the thin layer of ashy dust on high shelves and untouched knickknacks. When he realizes he's actually just pacing, he decides he could be doing something more productive.

Bobby does have a computer, though it's slower than molasses in Alaska and reminds Dean of his awful years in public school. Luckily, Dean has another option. On his way to the front door, he pauses at the foot of the stairs, listening for Sam. The shower soon shuts off and then Dean can hear the sound of the door and creaking of the floorboards as Sam goes directly to their guest room. It's not that late, but Sam already said he's done for the day. He refused the dinner that Dean offered to make and went upstairs to get ready for bed.

Dean still wants to go upstairs and check on him, but Sammy had made it clear he wanted some time to himself. As much as Sam's clinginess was starting to feel suffocating, now Dean's uncomfortable having the kid in another room and out of sight. He was just starting to get used to seeing Sam over his shoulder every time he turned around, and now he's gone again. Dean doesn't like it, but now isn't the time to push boundaries. If Sam says he wants to be alone, Dean will give him that.

Assured that Sam is alright for the moment, Dean sneaks out to the Impala, grabbing the briefcase from his trunk and heading back in. Rumsfeld is sleeping on the front porch, huffing out snores and not paying the least attention to the sound of Dean's footsteps; some guard dog he's turning out to be.

Back inside, Dean sets up Ezra's laptop on the kitchen table and plugs in the phone line for the internet. It takes a few minutes of annoying screeching and wonky sounds before he's on the world wide web. The first thing he types into the _Yahoo!_ search bar is 'missing persons blond girl.' He knows before he starts that it's gonna be tough to sort through all the different local news sites and missing kids bulletins to find Miranda. The way Dimitri and crew operate, she definitely wasn't from Elyria or Detroit. Hell, for all he knows, she might not even be American. Maybe she was British or Canadian. With a heavy sigh, Dean rests his cheek against his fist and starts sorting through the search results, sore eyes falling to half mast against the bright light of the screen.

He finds a couple sites dedicated specifically to missing children, but they're all relatively small, their databases made up mostly of milk carton kids and high profile cases. The small local cases are only reported in newspapers, and that's if Miranda even had anyone looking for her. She was fifteen—maybe her parents thought she was a runaway. Maybe she already came from a rough crowd, a bad family. Maybe she doesn't even have a family to report her missing.

Dean's never been an optimist, but he's not a goddamn quitter either. So he keeps searching, checking the databases of disappearances, national news, then big city papers. He goes into the archives, searching a few years back and finds a few listings worth investigating further, grabs a bent spiral notebook from one of Bobby's shelves and takes notes with a blue ballpoint, chewing absently on the end of it as he keeps scrolling through sites. Dean figures when Bobby gets sick of them hanging around, they'll head down to Nebraska and make a pit stop at the Roadhouse. It's been awhile since he's seen the Harvelles and he thinks maybe Ash could help out. The guy got accepted to MIT last Dean heard and he's pretty sure that's a big thing. Dean sure as hell wouldn't have the tech chops to compete at a college like that.

At some point, Dean realizes he's been doodling circles in the margins for more than five minutes and hasn't absorbed a word he's read in twice as long. He's so tired he's sagging at the table, head nodding off in a regular rhythm. He smacks his own cheeks a few times, but can't get his concentration back, only feels more bogged down.

Dean closes the laptop and stands, drags his exhausted bones towards the front door and peeks out the curtains. The Impala sits out front alone, Bobby's Chevelle and Dad's Sierra Grande still missing. With a sigh, Dean heads for the stairs, rubbing the raw sting out of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Then he remembers the look of withdrawn apathy on Sam's face when he'd asked to be left alone, eyes cast away to the side, like he couldn't even bring himself to look at his family. As much as they've failed Sam, Dean can't really blame him for that.

He looks up towards the ceiling, about where the guest room should be, and listens. The floor doesn't creak and the doors are silent on their hinges. Sam's asleep.

Dean quietly shuffles back into the main room and collapses on Bobby's couch, lying on his back with his ankles and arms crossed. His back hurts, sore and tense and not helped by the too-soft cushions. The window over the couch points out towards the salvage yard, and the lights out back shine down over him, making it harder to just close his damn eyelids and rest, despite how soul-deep tired he is. He'll make do, he tells himself, has definitely slept in shittier places.

For the few minutes it takes him to settle, Dean keeps his ears trained on the floor above, in case Sam calls him, needs anything.

It's dead quiet.

 

Xx--xX

 

A gunshot has Dean jumping to his feet so fast he's dizzy.

The house is darker, the night fully set in, and his eyes stare wide at the shadows, searching for a threat. It's silent again, nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and dust floating calmly in the air. It's so quiet that for a second Dean's not sure he really heard the distant crack of gunfire, but he knows better. That wasn't a dream.

There's a tingle of adrenaline creeping into his muscles that sours his stomach but clears the sleepiness from his mind. Dean heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time and keeping his eyes peeled for the slightest shift of movement, his ears open for footsteps. There's nothing. He walks with his back against the wall in the hallway, socked feet quick and quiet as he heads to the guest room. The door is open a crack, a sliver of pitch black between the door and the frame, and Dean takes a second to listen. When he doesn't hear anything, he pushes the door to swing open, softly calling, _“Sam.”_

He sees both beds empty, Sam's shoes gone, and Dean's heart somehow sinks like a lead weight and jumps into his throat at the same time. He doesn't have more than a second to stare wide eyed at the empty room before the thunder of another gunshot makes him jump.

 _Outside_ , Dean thinks as he sprints back down the stairs, _it was far enough that it had to be outside_. He stops to tug his boots on and messily knot the laces and hates every second it takes, but he knows he'll be fucking useless if he breaks a goddamn ankle tripping over his own feet. Never go into a fight unprepared, Dean. Every second counts, even the ones before you see your enemy.

He's out the front door the moment he's finished, bursting out onto the porch. The Impala is still the only car parked out front and Rumsfeld is _missing._ Dean hears another gunshot, a shatter of sound in the tranquil night, echoing from the empty fields, towards the forest on the edge of Bobby's property.

He considers going to the Impala for one split second, wants to arm himself—usually sleeps with his ivory-handled Colt beneath his pillow but he'd left it in the car, _stupid_ —but another shot goes off and Dean just all out sprints. He can take the guy hand to hand, he'll do whatever the fuck he has to, but he has to find Sammy. _Now._

Dean runs, breath pumping out of him in fog streams like a whale fountain, boots smacking heavy on the gravel and dirt of the salvage yard, then into the long grass, dirt crunching underfoot in a jolting tempo that matches the rat-a-tat of his racing heart. He hears three more shots while he runs, timed closed together, each one progressively louder as Dean gets closer to the source.

It's dark and the farther he gets from Bobby's place, the fewer lights there are, 'til he realizes he should've brought a flashlight. He wants to scream his brother's name at the top of his lungs—lost him again, only had him a few days, how could he be so _stupid,_ how could he lose Sammy, not again, please _god, not again_ —but he doesn't want to alert his attackers. Without a gun of his own, the element of surprise may be Dean's only useful weapon.

Another gunshot, proximity making it near deafening, a muzzle flash in the darkness. Dean's off like he's the bullet that's been shot, lungs burning as he's crushed through the barrel and spat out into the night. He's running like it's the last thing he'll ever do, face a mask of righteous fury, teeth bared and brow drawn down, fists curled tight as he pumps his arms with each long stride.

He sees a figure standing in the darkness, out at the very edge of Bobby's property line, where there's nothing but a dilapidated, unused toolshed and the listing barbed-wire fence that marks the beginning of the forest. Dean sees the person holding a gun, aimed with both hands, sees the muzzle spark bright like a firecracker and feels the vibration of the next gunshot shake through his chest. He doesn't stop running; screw surprise, it's only one guy. Dean can take him.

The person hears him, lowers the gun and turns to face him, and Dean barely has time to pull up short. He skids to a stop, stumbling as he finds his feet.

Sammy. It's just Sammy. Dean's breathing so hard he can't talk, wild-eyed and rumpled in his slept-in clothes. He stares at his brother trying to figure out what he's seeing.

“Dean?” Sam asks.

And the little shit has the nerve to sound fucking surprised.

Incensed, Dean marches forward and snatches the gun from Sam's hands. It's Dean's Colt, engraved metal hot to the touch, and he flips the safety by rote.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Dean shouts, breathless and rasping.

Sam's eyes widen and he takes a step back. “I-I was just—”

“You took my _gun?_ What the fuck is the matter with you!”

“You gave it to me!” Sam raises his voice defensively.

 _No, I didn't,_ Dean starts to say until he remembers that he did, recalls the moment he'd set the pistol in his brother's palm with thin reassurances that he was strong enough to protect the kids in the back of their stolen van. He saw Sam bring it into the Impala when they changed cars, but doesn't remember enough of the drive to know where Sam put it after that, and fuck he's so goddamn _stupid, stupid, stupid._ Losing track of his own weapons: great job, Dean.

Dean folds in two, hands on his knees for support, still holding his gun, trying to catch his breath and stay on his feet as a trembling vertigo rushes through his weakened body. He feels faint.

“Dean, I'm—” Sam starts, approaches carefully, dirty Chuck Taylors in the long grass, each step measured and slow. Sam sets a warm hand on Dean's shoulder. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Dean folds further, painful, wheezing hiccups escaping his mouth, too sour to be called a laugh. He shrugs Sam's hand off and stands up to his full height, nostrils flared, spitting mad and breathing heavy, has the ridiculous mental image of steam flowing from his nose like a cartoon bull.

“Bang up job,” Dean spits and Sam's face folds up into a sorrowful pout, too stupidly beatific for words, like a goddamn crying cherub in a chapel. Dean wishes he could stay pissed. “What the hell are you doing, Sam? Sneaking off in the middle of the fucking night to shoot at trees?”

Sam still looks sad, but he answers by pointing off in the distance, about fifteen yards away. The single yellowed bulb on the side of the tool shed is just enough to illuminate the sheet metal of a traffic sign leaned up against a tree beside it. An orange spray-painted bullseye obscures the lettering on the sign, the bright color a new addition, fresh enough that trailing lines drip down from the nested circles.

“Target practice,” Sam answers evenly. He turns back to Dean with remorse and hesitant hope on his face. “I really didn't mean to wake you up. Thought I was far enough away.”

Dean finally closes his eyes, feeling the tightly coiled electricity of his emotions drain away, leaching every smidge of energy from him. The exhaustion is so deep it feels like a Herculean effort to do anything more than sit down right where he is and never get up again.

“You couldn't have waited?” Dean asks tiredly.

Sam frowns and turns away, looking towards the target of his homemade shooting range, shrugs his shoulders.

Dean feels like he has a lot to say about this, that in another lifetime he'd be scolding Sam like crazy. He just doesn't have the energy for it, can only shake his head listlessly at the ground and wait for his heart to acclimate back to a steady rhythm. He hates how long it takes for his body to get the message that no one is dying; he can't stop gasping in breaths and remembers now why he quit smoking.

“I'm gonna hunt again,” Sam says, and that catches Dean's attention.

He looks at his brother, standing tall in the wan moonlight, wearing Dean's ill-fitting jeans and too-big flannel, ruffled all over by the biting autumn wind. Dean looks at him and if he had the energy to be surprised, he would be, because he doesn't see a child. He sees a man, sees the steel in his brother's stance and hears the understated confidence in his tone. It's not a question of permission: it's a statement of fact. Dean's too rattled, emotions barely reaching him through the dense, insulating layer of fatigue, and all he can do is stand there thinking, _well, what d'you know? Sammy really is a grown-up._

Sam finally looks over at him, forehead lined in a frown at Dean's silence. “Dean?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, their eyes sticking for a moment that lasts too long, until Dean looks down at the gun in his hand. “So you decide to use my goddamn gun to shoot at that shitty bullseye?”

Sam scowls huffily. “It's not shitty.”

“Dude, you could put a damn eye out from shrapnel. Bobby has paper targets.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

"You could _ask,”_ Dean says pointedly, and hell, maybe he's not too tired to scold his kid brother after all.

Sam doesn't do that remorseful thing again. Instead, he just huffs, looking off into the trees, face pissy even if there's a slump to his shoulders that means he really is sorry. And right then is when Dean's ire evaporates to nothing, because that's his little brother—through and through. Exactly the same bitchy, independent, too-smart punk that Dean raised. It's a breath of fresh air, maybe the first interaction they've had that feels like old times.

“This was good enough,” Sam says, his stubborn tone an argument waiting to happen. “I needed to see if I could still hit a target at a distance. I'm far enough back that there's no way shrapnel would'a got me.”

Still doesn't explain why he couldn't have told Dean first, and he says as much.

Sam sighs. “I didn't want— …If I couldn't do it, I didn't want to get your hopes up.”

Dean's eyebrows lift. Hasn't heard anyone say anything like that to him in a long ass time, as if Sammy could actually be worried about _Dean's_ feelings. It doesn't make any sense to Dean, seems as obvious as sunrise that it should be the other way around.

“So could you?” Dean asks.

Sam shoots him a lopsided smile. “See for yourself.”

Dean looks towards the target, the dripping orange circles, squints at it in the dark. He walks towards it, hearing Sammy's crunching footsteps falling in line behind him, and when he's close enough, Dean can see the grouping right in the middle. His eyes trace the metal and finds one bullet hole at each of the four cardinal directions on the outermost circle, the way Dad taught them fine-tuned marksmanship without the luxury of real shooting ranges to practice at. North, East, South, West, and three in the dead center.

“Damn, kid,” he mutters, unable to hide the lilt of pride in his voice. “You didn't miss a beat.”

Sammy's mouth quirks up higher, smirk widening before he tamps it down, playing cool. “Don't look so impressed. First two shots didn't hit the sign at all.”

After four years out of practice, Sammy getting even a few good hits would've been cause for celebration. Getting all seven shots exactly where they're supposed to be? That's nothing shy of a goddamn miracle.

Dean looks over his shoulder to find Sammy still gazing at his work, frowning at the three shots in the center, wider and more askew than the desired perfect triangle grouping.

“Why do you want to hunt?” Dean asks, and knows in an instant that he probably shouldn't have. It's too serious a question, might have an answer he doesn't want to hear.

Sam's eyes remain steady on the bullseye, determination welling up behind his expression so intense that he's glaring at the metal. “I'm a goddamn Winchester.”

Dean couldn't have hand picked a better answer and a wavering smile pulls up on his mouth. He looks down at the gun in his cold hand one more time before taking it by the barrel and offering the handle to his brother. Sam startles a little, standing up straighter and looking at the proffered weapon; his eyes flick up to Dean's, questioning.

“You're damn straight,” Dean tells him, offers the gun further, shaking it.

Sam takes it, seems to feel the weight of it in his hand even more than back in that Wal-Mart parking lot. He looks at Dean for a few long seconds, mouth opening around words he fervidly struggles to find, each empty breath from his parted lips laced with all the things he wants to say. Sam ducks his head, expression slowly fading into a weary smile.

“Wanna help me with moving targets next?”

Dean doesn't ask what Sam wanted to say, because he's a good brother, or trying to be anyway. “Hell yeah.”

Sam tucks the Colt into the back of his jeans—Dean's jeans, big enough to slide right off of Sam's skinny hips if it weren't for his belt, but the hems are an inch too high around his ankles—and walks into the tool shed. Dean follows, cold in the small hours of a South Dakota morning, but it hardly registers as a worry; he's not leaving Sam to go back for a jacket, and he's dealt with worse weather.

They find a thick, sturdy rope and a sledge hammer. Dean takes Sam's makeshift target and lays it out on the ground, using the sledgehammer to widen one one of the holes where a rivet once held the sign in place. Sam ties a rusted-out bucket to one end of the rope and throws it up over a tree branch, pulling and maneuvering the length of rope to get it in position. They thread one end of the strong nylon through the hole in the old traffic sign and hoist it up carefully, Dean holding it steady 'til they get it to the right height and Sam snugly tying the rope around the tree trunk to secure it.

It takes a while to complete, long enough for Dean to build up a damp layer of sweat beneath his clothes and for all the residual gut-clenching fight-or-flight reflexes to go dormant. Dean grabs the sign and pulls it to the side, lifting it above his shoulder before letting it drop and swing like a pendulum, back and forth. He feels warm and calm by the time he and Sam walk away from their hanging target, counting the paces until they reach just under fifteen yards.

The sign swings, wind helping it along, and Sam pulls the Colt out, loads a fresh magazine from his back pocket. He centers his weight, both hands on the grip to absorb the recoil, shoulders set and elbows bent and eyes like lasers, a faint speck of reflected moonlight in the black shadows of his irises. He thumbs off the safety and fires off the first round in quick succession. It's loud enough to make Dean's head throb and they don't have any ear plugs.

“Hold it,” Dean says, stepping up behind his brother. Sam follows him with his eyes, confused until Dean settles his hands over Sam's exposed ears. He gives a nod for Sam to continue.

The teen hesitates for a second before turning back to the target—which is swaying erratically after being struck by a bullet, less like a pendulum and more like a pinata. This close Dean can feel the way Sam meticulously follows every trick Dad taught them. He lines up his shot, finds the timing, exhales and holds it to still his body, squeezes the trigger and keep the gun in place even as it jerks in his hands, strong palms welcoming and subduing the recoil like an old sparring partner.

Seven shots, one at a time. Bang, bang, bang. Sammy empties the magazine, the Colt's slide locked back when he finally lowers his arms. Dean's ears are ringing.

“Don't think I was so lucky this time,” Sam says, and Dean only catches it because he's watching Sam's mouth form the words.

They approach the sign again and Dean reaches out with one hand to steady it for inspection. There are two more holes in the center, the third that was meant to land there skewed by more than a foot off to the side. There's another hole at North, right beside the first one—good for head shots—and one more near enough to West. But East and South aren't hit again at all, only a single hole in each from Sam's first round of practice.

“Fuck,” Sam curses softly.

A chuckle pops out of Dean and he claps his hand down on his brother's shoulder. “Dude, I've seen grown men who couldn't do that. And they weren’t even out of practice.”

Sam doesn't smile but he doesn't shake off Dean's hand. “It's not like you really forget it. Like riding a bike.”

“Well, it looks like we won't have to break out the training wheels,” Dean compliments before letting his touch slide away.

Sam fidgets, ejecting the empty magazine and resetting the slide. He's got loose bullets in his front pockets and starts thumbing them into the magazine one by one. Dean watches, wondering how the hell Sam could put all this together and sneak away without waking him. No matter where his Colt was, there's no way Sam just found stray bullets lying around; he went into the Impala's arsenal.

“That's enough for tonight, Tex,” Dean says, putting a hand over the Colt, waiting for Sammy to let go.

He does and Dean takes it, tucks it into the back of his jeans without the magazine. He guides Sammy into walking and they head back for Bobby's house at a leisurely pace, the teen still mechanically pushing bullets into the magazine, one by one, until it's full. When he's done, he trades that clip for the second empty one from his back pocket and starts reloading it too.

“You think Dad'll be okay with it?” Sam asks softly, eyes down on the steady work of carefully shoving the bullets into the mag against the tenacious spring; Dean knows how easy it is to slip and drop a round, replaced those springs a few weeks back and they're still not worn in right. Sam doesn't lose a single one.

“Doesn't matter,” Dean shakes his head, pissed at his father beyond words. It's the middle of the night and he's still not fucking back. “Already told you. You do what you want, Sam.”

Sam goes quiet for a minute, nothing but the click of bullets sliding into place and the rhythm of footsteps through the wild weeds of the empty field behind Singer Salvage.

“I still want to fight,” Sam adds, and he's speaking so plainly that it's almost like he's talking to himself instead of Dean. “But not to hurt anybody. I wanna help people.”

 _I **still** want to fight,_ Sam says and Dean wonders what that means. It's amazing that Sam is so sharp after four years off the job. But, no… it's more than amazing, it's literally unbelievable. Dean thinks back to Sam's quick movement in Kalamazoo, the way he disarmed and handcuffed a competent sheriff without breaking a sweat. A kid who spent the last four years trapped, locked up, held hostage, shouldn't know how to fight like that, shouldn't be able to move fluidly from cowering to violence in half a heartbeat.

Maybe Sam wasn't exaggerating at all when he said he never made it easy for them, fought every step of the way.

But something about it doesn't make sense. Dean scoffs at his own thoughts. Yeah, what else is new?

“You will, Sammy,” Dean says. He believes it, even with fragment shards of evidence scraping around the back of his head, like splinters of glass, razor-edged and nearly translucent—little inklings that maybe his compassionate baby brother, the Sam that wouldn't kill a fly without cause, has changed.

They're nearing the house now, leaving the grass of the field for the dirt and gravel of the scrap yard, piles of crushed cars towering over them and casting jagged edged shadows. Dean slows his pace, knowing instinctively that the comfortable camaraderie of this moment won't last forever. He's got a question that's been burning the base of his tongue for hours.

“This Z guy,” Dean says, voice low and conspiratorial. “You remember what he looks like?”

Sam’s footsteps come to an immediate halt.

Dean stops too, turning around to face him, see what the hold up is. Sam's looking right at him, expression indecipherable, forehead crumpled and eyes narrowed, mouth pursed around held-in words. Sam licks his lips and carefully answers, “He's over six feet… maybe six-two. White, mid-thirties, brown eyes, but… he wears disguises. Seen him with colored contacts, seen him pale enough to be Irish and tanned deep enough to be Hispanic. Changes his hair all the time, seen him blond and brown and bald, even green once.”

Dean's eyes widen as he takes that in. Sam wasn't exaggerating in the slightest about this guy being some kind of high-end hitman. He sounds like a fucking crazy ass spy, a super villain like in the movies. Dean knows about ghouls and selkies but he didn't know this kind of crazy ass shit existed in real life.

One thing stands out, though.

“You saw him a lot,” Dean comments, watching Sam for every frame of his reaction. “Wasn't just the first time.”

Sam draws his shoulders up but somehow, he looks weaker. “Yeah. He… visited.”

Dean has to remind himself to breathe, feels the hot metal of the gun at the small of his back and ravenous desire to spill Z's blood. Super spy or not, he'll die like any man.

“Not like _that,”_ Sam sighs, looking away, face pinked up from more than the cold. “I just mean, he was like… friends with d—the guy who bought me. Z's a hired gun, does the dirty work of the rich and powerful, but he didn't have any interest in me.” Sam coughs. “I mean, he wasn't after kids that way.”

That doesn't abate the bubble of bloodlust in Dean's belly. “And the guy who bought you?” he asks.

Sam pauses, stares at Dean, and he thinks maybe it should be more disturbing than it is. This Sam stares a lot, like he's trying to read Dean's thoughts. It doesn't bother Dean, but he thinks it would if he was anyone else. There's an invasive edge to knowing he's being watched so closely, but Dean doesn't mind so much when it's Sam; he doesn't get the urge to look away.

“Fitzinger,” Sam answers gravely, like he knows saying the name is as good as carving it onto a tombstone. “Robert Fitzinger.”

Dean locks that name into his heart, cuts it into his own soul, won't forget it 'til the day he dies and maybe not even then. Robert Fitzinger. He's gonna be the first.

Sam reads it on his face, frowns at him. “He's a lawyer. Filthy rich and well-protected. He may look like an average suburban guy, but he's smart. You'll be lucky to even get close enough for a shot.”

Dean glowers. “If you think that piss poor excuse is gonna stop me—”

“I don't,” Sam interrupts, “but if you’re gonna do this, I’m not letting you go alone.”

 _No,_ something inside Dean says, and his mouth follows suit. “No way,” Dean repeats. He's not letting Sam anywhere near this fucker.

“That's not up to you,” Sam spits like a challenge, like all this time he's been waiting for Dean to admit his talk about freedom and choices was bullshit. He says it like he knew it was a lie from the very beginning, that Dean could never follow through on that promise.

Dean looks away, opposition singing inside him, fiery indignation making him want to smack his brother for choosing _this,_ of all the things he could choose.

“Fine,” Dean mumbles, and hates it. He starts walking again and hearing Sam fall in step behind him is soothing enough that it cools him down. Sam's here, the sound reminds him. Dean's got his little brother back and he's not going to forget to appreciate every precious moment of it.

Dean doesn't want Sam in danger, and he has no clue what it will do to him to face his tormentor again. He knows the path of revenge is long and bloody and painful, that it doesn't always pay off; Dean knows because he's been walking that path for most of his life. He doesn't want to see his little brother eaten up by the same obsession that stole Dad's happiness, that stole Dean's childhood and free will. Sammy always managed to keep hoping and dreaming and having faith in people, no matter what horrendous shit they saw on the job. Dean used to think it was because Sam was a kid, that one day he'd grow out of it, but now that thought is repulsive.

He doesn't want Sammy to grow out of that, doesn't want to see that it's been beaten out of him by fucking perverts. Dean wants Sammy back, craves his brother like a drug—and he wants the real Sam, that clever, sweet kid with his whiny voice and bitchy glares and endless appreciation for normalcy. They're gonna have enough trouble putting him back together without Sam becoming dedicated to ripping himself apart for revenge.

But that’s a hypocrite’s logic, because Dean has been itching to track down and punish the people who hurt Sammy long before he ever found him at that auction. Dean wants revenge so bad he can taste it, wants to rend and tear and _kill_ anyone that laid a finger on his brother, demons and humans alike. He’s ready to throw his life down for this, because somebody has to, so why not him? Dean’s already a lost cause; his life was never going to be more than hunting and bleeding and killing. Sam, though: Sam has choices.

But that’s the whole point, a voice whispers inside: it's Sam's choice. It has to be his choice, and not anyone else's. He deserves that much. It’s the reason Dean made such an impossible promise in the first place, and he intends to keep it. Even if that means he never gets his baby brother back the way he wants.

The revelation breaks something open in Dean, and he suddenly knows exactly what he has to do. Maybe he's been waiting to do this since the moment he saw Sam on that stage.

Instead of heading for the backdoor, Dean bypasses Bobby's house altogether, walking around the side to get back to the front drive. He finds Rumsfeld curled up inside a massive truck tire, probably trying to hide from the racket of gunfire. The pup tracks them lazily with its eyes but doesn't so much as wuff in their direction. It's the quickest he's ever seen the dog warm up to a stranger. Took the dumb mutt two weeks before he stopped barking at Dean.

Sam doesn't ask where they're going, following Dean faithfully, close enough to be stepping on his shadow. Dean goes to the Impala and opens up the driver's side. Sam opens the passenger side expectantly, but follows Dean's lead of not actually getting into the car. Dean bends in through the open door and Sam mirrors him on the other side, watching his every move.

Dean grunts as he reaches under the driver's seat, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth with the effort and uncomfortable contortion of his body, fingers brushing past the cool barrel of a hidden gun, grasping for the edge of paper. Dean makes a soft sound of victory when he snags the motel writing pad and pulls it out, smoothing down the top sheet; the bent paper pops right back up.

Dean looks across the bench seat to see Sam's eyebrows high, looking back and forth between the paper and Dean, questions on his face as clear as daylight in the desert.

Dean stands wordlessly, rehearsing in his head how he wants to share this, closing his door with a creak and snap, echoed by Sam doing the same. He walks a few steps and sits down on the hood of his Baby, one boot heel perched on her front fender, looking off towards the bright white of the single street lamp on the road in front of Bobby's place, writing pad cradled in his palms.

The Impala squeaks on her wheels as Sam takes a seat next to him.

“Get those magazines outta your pockets,” Dean orders without meaning to. Wow, that is not how he wanted to start this conversation, but he's already halfway in so he continues. “You're gonna scratch her paint.”

Sam's serious face wavers, lips twitching like he's silently laughing, but he obediently stands and pulls the magazines out of his pockets. He sits back down with them in his hands, head bowed and fidgeting with the bullets, but he's not watching his own fingers. He's side-eyeing the list.

“Before I—” Dean starts and stops, holds it in. Part of him wants to come clean, wants to purge the acrid bile that’s been quietly burbling behind his breastbone since he slit a man's throat. But Sam comes first, and he doesn't need to hear that. He's dealing with enough; Dean's not about to dump a load of his own psychological bullshit on his already traumatized brother. It takes Dean a minute to swallow the whole truth down while keeping just enough of the facts poised on his tongue.

“Before I found you,” Dean starts again, “I found a guy that was part of the business. He was a lowlife, weak—sold his secrets for next to nothing.” Only paid with his sorry life, and yeah, that wasn't worth much in Dean's opinion. “I got him to write down every name he knew. Buyers, dealers, his own crew—every name of every evil person he knew, right here,” Dean emphasizes, patting the motel stationary twice.

Dean risks a look over at Sammy. The kid looks stunned, no real reaction just yet. Dean continues.

“I told you that you're free to choose what you want and I meant that,” he says. “You gotta do what's right for you, no matter what anybody else has to say about it, including me.”

Dean looks down at the pad of paper in his hand, futilely skimming the first page like maybe he can memorize it. Gritting his teeth through the effort, Dean hands the paper to his little brother, gaze set on the uneven gravel in front of him. He feels Sam's long, precise fingers gently take the offering, feels the emptiness of his own palm and the loss of his chance at revenge like a physical weight in his chest.

“It's yours,” Dean speaks, voice a deep, scratchy sigh. “If you want to burn it to a crisp, bury it, give it someone else—that's up to you.” Dean turns to look at Sam then, sees the teen reading the names, fingertips tracing over the black ink. He waits and when Sam meets his eyes Dean tells him, “But if you want to punish them, publish their names, or—if you want _retribution—”_

The moment stretches, the word suspended in the cold air between them, hanging on the dusty, copper smell of damp earth and metal. Sam stares into his eyes and there's something so young there, open and full of possibilities.

“I'll be right with you every step of the way,” Dean mutters, quiet enough that even though they're already alone in the middle of nowhere, there's no way anyone could hear it but them.

Sam looks down and for a moment, watching his own thumb absently stroke over the names. Sam’s voice is low, a softly spoken admission, “I used to dream about it, getting back at them. I used to think about what I'd do to them if I ever got the chance. I still do, all the time.

“But I don't… I don't want this to be my life,” Sam whispers brokenly. “Part of me just wants to close the door on all this and never look back.”

“You can,” Dean tries to assure him. “No one would—”

“Lemme finish,” Sam says, looking up at him, and Dean goes obediently silent.

Sam looks down at the paper again, and Dean watches as his sweet brother's face curdles into something like sickening rage, a fine tremor through his clenched jaw and twisted mouth. His grip tightens, fingers digging into the cheap motel paper, nails and knuckles going white from the force.

“I can't let them get away with it,” Sam growls. “They're not gonna stop, and I can't let them hurt other kids like me.

“I'm a _Winchester,”_ Sam repeats with breathy passion, like it's a promise he made to himself. “And we don't run from what scares us. We hunt it down.”

When Sam looks at him again, there's emphatic, primal determination inside him; it doesn't glow, doesn't spark, isn't easily read in his eyes. But it's there all the same, an intangible fortitude as true and real as the bullets in Sam's hand, dull and unassuming outside of the polished steel of a gun, but no less deadly. There is an immutable iron core running through Sam that Dean remembers seeing before, years ago. It's like coming home again, seeing that it's still there.

Sam holds the list out to Dean, sharing the burden.

“We've got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worth the wait?
> 
> Don't forget to leave a kudo if you liked it and a comment with any thoughts, criticisms, questions, or existential ponderings.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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